Waking up with a cup of tea or not at all

With smooth, warm back and closed, dreaming eyes

Duvet, surrounding his face

One arm flung out, but no movement belies

The single cog turning in place

The smell from the cup wafts gently to nose

And the clunk of it put on the table

Enables first movement, a twitch, and a groan

And he rolls quite as far as he’s able

The second attempt, eyes still closed, one lid trying

To open to find what might be

The only thing worth waking up before noon for

A large, freshly made cup of tea

The sleep that he has...*

With heavy lids closing,

Suggestions opposing,

Continuing dozing –

Still sleeping at four.

The question I’m posing

While he is reposing:

Will he sleep supposing

He’s pushed to the floor?

Resisting my nosing;

Ignoring a hosing!

And still he’s proposing

Just ten minutes more…

*Format inspired by "The Life That I Have" by Leo Marks.  Content, not so much.

What I think about when I think about sleeping*

My love, by night, attempts defenestration;
I simply cannot  fathom what the cause.
It presents a grave concern - a consternation -
Most notable when staying on high floors.

When not walking in his sleep, he's often talking,
Though I can recognise no waking theme;
It must be that my love slumbers so deep
He knows not that he's speaking but a dream.

When not walking, talking - snoring - why, he's moving!
An arm, a leg, being never where it should.
The constant plague of limbs forever proving
That I should wake him up and say "No good!"

So to the door my lover must be shown,
That I may do some dreaming of my own.

* Background reading is the completely unrelated "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" by Haruki Murakami