You compared it to walking in bare feet through a graveyard,
or trying to find a shard of ice in a box of broken glass,
when pain is not a distinguishing feature of anything -
you just have to feel the blood get colder.
So I laughed, and watched the dribble come down my finger,
the droplets pooling strangely, upside down puddles, on my finger-tips,
freezing like tiny algal blooms on the surface of my flaking skin.
Or so I imagined.
You were cold as a child, and you never really got over it.
You decided to buy a coat in the autumn,
but you forgot, and forgot, until all the saturdays were gone, and it was too late.
You slowly became more and more bruised that winter.
I wanted to kiss you, then,
but your skin was liquid,
and my mouth always came away coated in a little too much blood,
so you were content with just holding onto me, coughing your life into the fabric of my clothes.
I sometimes realised, just for a second, that I was the one who would bleed out.
It was like