Death to be loved

By Likith Kumar

When death knocked on my door. If death knocks on my door, I would happily invite her in.

Life has given immense sorrow, that death is a better beginning.

I would ask her to sit down and offer a hot cup of coffee,

and I would talk about the days of my glory, and days I was sorry. I would tell her about people, so diabolical. About people getting attached to spasmodic pleasures and forgetting inevitable.

I would tell her about my fears, that I haven't told anyone, And scars like ancient crevices, that still burn like the sun. I would tell her about procrastinating and happy times I would lose About times when I worked hard just so that I didn't have to deal with my issues.

She looked at me with a smile, indicating she was with me the whole time.

Still, she let me talk.

And do my chores for one last time.

I tucked my shirt and wore a coat with an embedded golden button. I was perplexed by the tie, she helped me choose the perfect one.

She caressed my hair and looked at me again.

We held each other, entangling our fingers, and walked out of the door. Death whispered, "We shall meet again". When I knocked on death's door. I got distracted again. Demons crept up my skin and tormented my heart and brain from within. My dreams and visions have blurs now, My speech doesn't speak truth or love, all it utters is some meaningless slurs now. I bartered a few seconds of silence to my brain, by losing my pride and soul. I walked down the alley and knocked on the wrong door. I glanced back at my life, which meant so much to me, Being shredded and torn. Everything made sense, all my pain, and suffering nothing was in vain. when death opened the door. And she whispered, "At last we met again"

By Likith Kumar