We no longer created. We were still too young
to climb out into the darkened real houses.
I wanted it gone but you followed me
into the shower. There was some talk about sharing
our meals again, so long as we didn't feed
each other. I was full, so I pulled out the old contract
for our future. There would be two doors
and I could use neither. You would use these
for your work. You signed your name
at the bottom. This settled, we slept. Or you did.
Or you didn't, or we took turns, as we did then
because of the bombings, and I heard you
kneel as I lay awake. In the morning, our room
was white. I reminded you of iodine, the way I was
always ill. The light worked you clean like a blotter,
but I was stained, and though I was stained
you tended my bed the way one did in that house,
in that time, though you only brought me water
when I asked for blood.