Tale of the Typewriter

There is an old typewriter that sits on a shelf next to dusty books and burnt candles.
Untouched for years, harsh feelings linger of the sticky, temperamental ink tape.
Watching arms bend as each letter transfers from ink to paper
Its keys are like fingerprints matching to mine and I listen—
I hear the click and zip sounds as my words write themselves
Bringing me back to grandmother's house during earlier times
As I sat writing, typing, staying awake for days
Finishing a story: The Fairy in the Flower,
Celebrating a birthday and independence of childhood
Much unlike the agedness of these tacky keys.
Light green and yellowed, the stories it has created,
All the fingers it has felt and the tears that have fallen on the letters.
If the typewriter could speak, the tales it could tell...
Just like the time I sat typing in a chair making up fairy spells.