Nine Lines after Midnight

Two minutes past midnight.
Bedside lamplight.
A half drunken cup of tea, growing cool, almost too cool to drink.
Tired eyes.
I hear Andy leave his room, move to the bathroom.
A gap between the curtains of my room.
The inverted dagger of night is held back by a slash of white window frame.
I will sleep for eight hours.
Wake in the melancholy of a November morning numerous times.