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There was nothing to hear except a cold, impenetrable silence that rested heavily upon the dankness of our cramped basement. The soft hum of the radiator was absent; there was not a footstep on the floors above, no honking cars on the distant roadway. It was almost frightening; if I were to speak, would my words be heard at all?
The clamoring murmur of Curt’s lungs brought me out of my stupor, ending the resonating silence of the room. His warm breath tickled the velvety hairs on the back of my neck, sending a tingling sensation down my spine. His lean, yet stalwart arm lay across my shoulder, holding me in a tight embrace against his feeble, heaving chest. But his light breathing was all the sound in the world; besides the two of us it was silent, there was no other voice in the world, none that mattered at least.
My lips slowly broke apart, cracking away the spit that had sealed them together in my slumber. My own breath rasped between them, uttering a series of vowels and consonants and syllables:
I have been one acquainted with the night
I have outwalked the furthest city light,
I have looked down the saddest city lane
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right
I have been acquainted with the night.
Against my back I could feel the muscles of Curt’s chest tense, then release again, and the arm that so lovingly pulled my body against his flexed itself as well. The words had spoken themselves, and I felt a sudden embarrassment at having woken him.
“That was pretty, Angie,” his voice was rasp and tired, vacant; he was half asleep and was not cognizant of what he spoke.
“It wasn’t the whole thing,” I assured him in a whisper. “I took out the parts I don’t like.”
He gave a half-chuckle. “Who wrote it?”
“Some silly old man.”
I felt his thin, soft lips press against the back of my neck, again bestowing the tingling feeling upon my spine.
“’Night,” he said, and I did not reply, as I knew he had passed back into dreamscape.
It took me a moment to follow, and instead I stared into the darkness of the room. There was not a single light, only an opaque, endless darkness. It was not a cold darkness, however. The room was heated by the incessant emotion fluttering from every pore of Curt’s body, wrapping itself around my body like a python, and squeezing me, begging for the emotion to be returned to its giver.
But I had nothing to return.

Robert Frost is some silly old man? Geesh! - Just kidding.
I love how you incorporated Aquainted With The Night in this piece, it's one of my favorite Frost poems!
Anyways I liked how you described Curt holding the narrator at the beginning. I thought it was very descriptive, kind of like I was in the room when this happened.
Overally I liked this passage. It was enjoyable to read.
Oh and for the title, how about just plain and simple: I Have Been Aquainted With the Night? Or maybe even just Night? After all, you do mention the word night A LOT in this piece.
Keep writing,
Jane!

Hey Lena - lovely name, by the way - I'm here to give you some pointers on this, okay?

First of all, a note on details in a story. Details are the nuggets of information you slip in to make the piece come alive, to make the reader imagine the scene where and when and how it happens, to make them feel like they know what's going on. Details ARE your friends, since they lift a story out of pure plot into something a lot more...real-feeling.

Do note that if there are too many details at once, this tends to kill the mystery - which wasn't so much the case here.

No, in this case, these charming detail-friends were overused, to the extent where reading the story became somewhat difficult, and it seemed you were agonising over every infinitesimal bit of the story, which dragged it out. For example, the first few paras:

There was nothing to hear except a cold, impenetrable silence that rested heavily upon the dankness of our cramped basement. The soft hum of the radiator was absent; there was not a footstep on the floors above, no honking cars on the distant roadway. It was almost frightening; if I were to speak, would my words be heard at all?

The clamoring murmur of Curt’s lungs brought me out of my stupor, ending the resonating silence of the room. His warm breath tickled the velvety hairs on the back of my neck, sending a tingling sensation down my spine. His lean, yet stalwart arm lay across my shoulder, holding me in a tight embrace against his feeble, heaving chest. But his light breathing was all the sound in the world; besides the two of us it was silent, there was no other voice in the world, none that mattered at least.

My lips slowly broke apart, cracking away the spit that had sealed them together in my slumber. My own breath rasped between them, uttering a series of vowels and consonants and syllables:

It's mainly an overuse of adjectives and adverbs that makes this piece look like it's trying too hard - which is a shame, since it's something so easily fixed, and once it is fixed, the descriptions will be lovely, instead of overwritten. Also, do make sure when you reread this that any and all descriptions do make sense, or fit nicely - for example, 'clamoring murmur,' 'stalwart arm,' 'dankness' just sounded a little off, while the 'impenetrable silence' was a tad cliche.

From an overall point of view, it's a snapshot, isn't it? I would not call it a slice-of-life like I would call other short stories, but it's a sweet little piece about Frost's poem as it is - although I do not envision it to stand on its little toddler legs just by itself as it is. Anyway, thanks for the read, and I hope that helped! PM me if you have any questions.

Comments in red.

Lena.Wooldridge wrote:There was nothing to hear except a cold, impenetrable silence that rested heavily upon the dankness of our cramped basement. This has an awful lot of adjectives for a single sentence. Kind of made me stumble. The soft hum of the radiator was absent; there was not a footstep on the floors above, no honking cars on the distant roadway. It was almost frightening; if I were to speak, would my words be heard at all?
The clamoring murmur of Curt’s lungs This brought a very weird image to mind. Mind rephrasing? brought me out of my stupor, ending the resonating silence of the room. His warm breath tickled the velvety 0o I think you can do without that adjective. hairs on the back of my neck, sending a tingling sensation down my spine. His lean, yet stalwart arm lay across my shoulder, holding me in a tight embrace against his feeble, heaving chest. I think it's safe to say at this point that this piece has adjectivitis. But his light breathing was all the sound in the world; besides the two of us it was silent, there was no other voice in the world You just used the phrase "in the world"., none that mattered at least.
My lips slowly broke apart, cracking away the spit that had sealed them together in my slumber. My own breath rasped between them, uttering a series of vowels and consonants and syllables The last part of this sentence tries too hard.:
I have been one acquainted with the night
I have outwalked the furthest city light,
I have looked down the saddest city lane
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right
I have been acquainted with the night. She said this? It's kind of weird that it's the first thing she said when she woke up. 0o Really, really weird. Usually when you wake up you're a little fuzzy and the first thing people say? Definitely not a poem.
Against my back I could feel the muscles of Curt’s chest tense, then release again, and the arm that so lovingly pulled my body against his flexed itself as well. The words had spoken themselves, and I felt a sudden embarrassment at having woken him.
“That was pretty, Angie,” his voice was raspy and tired, vacant; he was half asleep and was not cognizant of what he spoke.
“It wasn’t the whole thing,” I assured him in a whisper. “I took out the parts I don’t like.”
He gave a half-chuckle. “Who wrote it?”
“Some silly old man.” Kind of forced dialog.
I felt his thin, soft lips press against the back of my neck, again bestowing the tingling feeling upon my spine.
“’Night,” he said, and I did not reply, as I knew he had passed back into dreamscape.
It took me a moment to follow, and instead I stared into the darkness of the room. What? So she fell asleep then stared into the darkness? 0o There was not a single light, only an opaque, endless darkness. It was not a cold darkness, however. The room was heated by the incessant emotion fluttering from every pore of Curt’s body, wrapping itself around my body like a python, and squeezing me, begging for the emotion to be returned to its giver.
But I had nothing to return.

Final thoughts:

I don't really understand the point of this piece. I think it's more like a drabble than a short story since there isn't really much going on.

As a whole I don't know much about your character or Curt either. I just know she likes poetry and she might not like him but he likes her.

Third, as Navita mentioned, your piece has adjectivitis. It has way too many adjectives and as a result it seems to try so hard to be poetic but doesn't really make the cut.

Anyway, those were my thoughts. Cheers. Hope this review helped.

Sincerely,

Kara