Writers 
I've met the Grim Reaper once.
The only difference between me
and those who met him
is that I'm not dead yet.
I saw him standing there,
his hat resting on his head,
shadowing the face
I wasn't supposed to remember.
And somehow,
I opened the door for him.
I was told not to look
into his eyes,
but I couldn't resist
those shiny, mysterious blue eyes.
They were beautiful,
yet somehow sad,
as if even death
had something to mourn.
I served him his dish
and didn't ask
why he was there.
I didn't panic.
Maybe because,
I've always known
that one day,
we are all meant to die.
Still, something about him
felt different that night.
He sat quietly,
staring at me
like he was searching
for a name
he had forgotten.
Then, perhaps,
he decided to cross my name
out of his death book
for another day.
Perhaps he decided
I wasn't ready
to drink his coffee yet.
So he stood,
left without a word,
and disappeared
into the darkness.
But he left a note
on my table.
Four words.
“Who the fuck are you?”
And I still
don't know
whether he was asking me
or himself.
