I suppose, when I look back on our relationship, I only ever had the tips of her. Her fingers, hands and toes. Her knees and shins, her ears and nose. The icy tips that fell prey to winter air. But her chest and lungs, torso and shoulders, the blood and the heart—well, that was something I never had.

And did I ever want it?

I’m not sure.

Would the center, the middle of her, the core of her, warm as easily as the tips always did? I could hold her hand in mine. I could tuck her legs under a blanket. She always wore shoes and socks. Her ears were covered with her silky strands of hair and her nose could be buried in the crook of my neck as a kissed was pressed against my skin.

But her blood rages on without my touches and, I daresay, it always will.