early friday morning

It's so odd to be the only one awake
Certainly here,
And I can almost imagine, in the world.
Even the cat, nightowl extrordinaire,
Lies curled in a ball, breathing softly.
Time seems to flow
More quickly in these hours
Between the late-at-night and the morning
When the light in my room is the only one,
Asside from the moon and stars,
That lights up the street.
I should be asleep
Not writing late-night poetry.