Flowers can’t grow on mountain tops

My hair falls out like pedals do off wilting flowers

It must mean I'm rotten, layers of black having filled my capillaries 

inhabiting my internal flow

The ends of fingers fall off first in the cold, your body retaining heat in its center

If it were the opposite

Your heart would shed first, all at once, laying on the ground before you

wet and anxious, flapping like a fish

You'd bend down and hold it, feel its warmth

its movements slowly fading

with your warm, fully attached, fully intact, blood pumping fingers

which will stay no matter the heights you climb

the conditions you suffer