Your lips were chapped from your work
In the snow, your skin was broken, bleeding,
And when you left you bled into me. It was from a kiss.

I think of you working. Lifting, pushing, aching,
In your gloves, your jumper, outside, with the
Powdery smell of the grit and the salt, the
Red rust, skips, dirt, brick, chemical things to
Stick. You're almost a picture of somebody's
Husband, someone's Daddy, crafting worlds for people.

For me. My eye twitches. Our blood mixes in my mouth.
It feels like home.