Between The Wine and The Window

What does the October night 
 think of me
through the window of 
 the Vicarage, 
with my teeth stained 
from glasses of wine and 
 a sore throat from puffing?
is it disappointed that 
 i lack control? or does it 
 revel in the fact that 
i am forever looking up
 and wondering how?
wondering what is within and
what is without,
 what maketh the sky and 
how many nights does it
 look back?
what does it make of me?
and if it does, maybe 
i need another glass of wine