Seclusion

We're in the dim-lighted room
in the house, drinking mint tea and
snuggling on pillows.
The power's been off for
two days straight,
and we're running out of candles.
The neighborhood is winter-quiet,
shops closed, children asleep,
stray cats hiding in car engines,
and garbage bags.
You could hear the wind moving.
You could see the fog erasing the city.

You lean on me,
your hand touches mine
to make sure it's still warm enough.

Soon, the city will lose what's
left of it's voice, and
we'll be running out of
bread, too,
and mint tea,
and daylight,
but we are in the house, together,
your hand in mine,
and that's worth living in
the dark for.