There is more to Death
than the smell of a rotting corpse.
There is the bitter taste of salt
crusted on your inner cheek.
An insatiable need for warmth
near the edges of your hand.
There is a voice in the pit of dirt and plush
that screams up for forgiveness.

If one were to brush a finger
to the pale, chalky skin,
it would be to only see
the shadow of Death.
If one were to kiss the frozen cheek
with a face of equal stone,
it would to knock on the door
of Death's apartment.
But if one were to walk away
with only the taste of salt upon their tongue,
and absence of heat upon their hand,
and voice from below ringing in their ears,
it would be to shake the hand
of Death itself.