Eleven thirty at night.

Eleven thirty at night.
Only the creaking of the fan above me
And the cricket in the attic
To keep away the ringing ears.
No one is awake but I,
Sitting all alone at my computer.
But I am not lonely.
How strange it is to know
There is somewhere I must go tomorrow.
Must get up early.
So why am I still awake?
Perhaps it is the peacefulness.
No real communication with those I know,
Or if so, very limited.
Just me, a bright screen,
The creaky fan, and God.
Everything else in the room melts away.
My head tells me I must go now.
Must get up early.
I must sleep to do so, after all.
So I bid you goodnight, dear reader.
Dear, dear reader.
And so I bid you goodnight, dear reader,
And I shall see you when the moon is gone.