Bleed

but her soul did not bleed;

and you could never guess if her
blood was red, blue, green or grey;

or maybe she did bleed, 

and maybe the colour was invisible
to those eyes that wanted to see, 

or maybe her blood spilled ink on the pages of her diary, 

or maybe it bled in the blue pacific ocean when
the hurricanes came and you thought it was
the moon and its tides to blame, or maybe her
blood was nothing out of the ordinary, and maybe
she did bleed when you saw the way she
smiled when her own touch bid her goodbye, and
when her own skin washed away where you touched her.