Ice breathes across the back of your neck,
your hairs perk up in a reaction you'll never forget.
It's like they way that you can never remember what to say,
even though it seemed like your words were at their best.
Something unconscious, like he middle of the night,
breaking glass and you're asking “fight or flight.”
It's the kind of thing that makes our blood run hot and cold,
the kind of thing that affects you,
young and quick,
or wise and old.