sometimes at midnight
she would cook eggs,
strange to think now
how satisfying it was,
the aroma slowly circulating
through the sparse apartment,
our clothes greedily abandoned
hours earlier for ***
and then a warm bath,
candles our only light
in the self-imposed blackout,
the only sound remaining
between our whispered voices
the drip of the spigot
in the used-up kitchen,
our lithe bodies entwined again
but this time for sleep,
the remaining minutes left
for our diminishing breath
upon each other's flesh