Not a fighter.

On my bed, somehow the soft chatters of perfectly silken threads had a roughness embroidered today.

The sun shone equally bright but seems like rain gave him a playful wash today and so he smiled from his first ray to another.

Although warm, my body felt such defying coldness like it shivered the gaps between two old lovers in a snowy night.

It wasn’t a perfect day to die, nothing ever is.

It’s just death didn’t expect to be welcomed by joined hands and humble smiles speared at him with gratitude.
He got awkward and shy with me.

It was nothing like dark and hellish.

If it was, then he was a master of disguise to cloak it under the ticks of time, a lengthy eulogy, and the blissful last words.

He is a mean thing I have heard, pulls people into his cloaked darkness.

Wonder why kind to me.

Maybe he never ate choco chip cookies I offered kids to like me more.

Or didn’t he hear any of my fairy tales at night breezing against his ears like snowflakes on chime.
He blushed as I sat with him happily singing the good old times of my life.

It was better not to kick him, push him, fight him, like who does that?

Doesn’t the living say love kills hate?

Life had been generous but death showed how to thank her for being so.

Maybe they were not rivals at all.

Just long distance friends.

One in need, other in deed.
We together solved some puzzles, cracked few tear bags for others, counted my gaspy last breathes and I for once, held his wrinkled hands in mine.

The shivering ended, it was all warm again.

He was happy that he met a thanker today, not a fighter.

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