Near Midnight

The tea
in my cup
has gone cold
near these abandoned poems
and the pen that has written them.

I sip the sweetness
without heating
the dark comfort again;
letting the unwanted
losses empty into my mouth.

It is a long ritual
to read the words aloud,
scratch out a word or two,
and surrender to the call
of midnight
and the longing
for the false hope
of sleep.

I pick up the cup,
wander through the kitchen
like a dream,
and climb the stairs
to the singleness
of my bed.