blood-stained shadows

it rests on your fingertips so gingerly, you don’t quite know what to do with it at first. your fingers are frigid, though your skin's still smooth; yes, complexities like simplistic things to live on. so when death offered you his hand, did you expect to touch something so warm and welcoming? no, i suppose you didn’t; ’cause why else would you stagger back from him so surprised and quickly. then you drop your gaze at the shadow (you don’t dare think of his name again) and notice the blood on your finger- here we are again, where we started.

two seconds, that’s how long you hesitate, but it’s enough; just enough actually, for the sun to dip behind you and disappear, taking death (but without you). since he knows the favoured parts of you best be attained in the day, when he can do more than walk with you, but dance alongside with you. and perhaps when he comes back, with his midnight looks outlined by his version of eternity, you’ll be ready to take his hand.

but until then, you merely touch it here and then, only to draw back in fear. you do this again and again. every time blood comes away with your hand, it’s like a parting gift, from a friend. since your close calls must be remembered in the forms of scars and bruises, with blood of remembering and knowing. yes, for now, he’ll leave you thinking of his blood-stained shadows awaiting the day you let him dance with you.