The speaker asks a question directly to another person, wondering what made sickly, pale skin feel beautiful to them. The questions pile up: was it the pink on the cheeks, or the strange thrill of looking as though each breath might be the last? The speaker even wonders whether this person wanted to be frail, to stand "on the edge of life."
The short, broken lines make the poem feel hushed, as if every word is placed carefully. Words like "pale," "breath," and "last" sit alone on their own lines, so they land heavily. The tone is curious and gentle rather than angry, though there's an undercurrent of worry. Then the final lines soften the mood. Maybe the answer is simpler: the rosy cheeks just looked soft. That ending is tender, but it also leaves a question hanging, because the speaker never says whether they truly believe it. The poem seems to be about how illness and beauty can get tangled together, and how hard it is to understand that from the outside.