I wonder
what you meant
when you told me,
over the fifth cup of black coffee,
that you had fallen out of love
more than the number of times
you’d kissed someone,
your hands were not under-oxygenated
but, cold
because each hand you held before,
took away your share
of warmth too
and people
were just bricks
that you kept stacking
to build a wall around
your heart;
while, I
held your sweaty palms
and heard your heart
beat against your ribcage
like a storm.