Told me your fingers go cold at the tips, something about blood, blood spilled perhaps. It certainly sends a shiver down somewhere, maybe the alley behind the flats, maybe just my spine. I linger at the back of queues with my passport hidden without baby steps to make my decisions, wisps of smoke falling out of my ears, grabbing onto cold hands, frozen memory.
Told me there’s a gap, somewhere, where the blood won’t pump. Something about memory something I said, perhaps.