Death kissed me slowly as I layed alone in bed. One empty side, as cold as it had always been. The pillow did not smell like a beautiful stranger or a star-crossed lover, instead it reeked of the bitter smell of loneliness. Death took my hand and held it tight. He made me put down my brush and hide my pure creation of art. He embraced me, oh so carefully, for he feared I may burn myself by his coldness. I breathed in his non-existing breath and caught a cold no one can be cured from. It was a cold in my heart, that ran through my veins and infected my soul. Death closed his eyes while staring into mine, fearing they would turn as black as coal, just like his, but I took liking to the eyes that for once were not a chestnut brown, a crystal blue or a forest green. I admired the black pools in his eye sockets and I jumped right in, knowing I could not swim. I called out to Death, with the same hoarse voice, but he said it wasn't my time yet.
- I fell in love with Death, but he did not love me back.
c.d.
YOU ARE READING
It's a journal
Poetry''Instead of blades, I use pens, but it is still my blood covering the pages.'' Comment or like if I have helped or inspired you. Also if you are having trouble or you are feeling down, Feel free to talk to me. I might not be able to take the pain...
