He smirked at me, surprised by my sass, even in death.
Death wore a suit, looking every bit the striking businessman.
He held a heavy tome as he read my name, telling me it was not my time.
Leaning in the crook of his arm was the sharp scythe, glimmering faintly.
Death touched my face with his cold hands, his fingers brushing across my delicate lips, and under my chin.
He made me look into his eyes and spoke gently,
"It is not your time. I will see you again, but today is not the day."
A tear ran down my cheek and his icy fingers wiped it away.
Death leaned forward, his presence bringing cold and dread.
With his frosty lips, he tenderly kissed my forehead.
He kissed down my face, leaving a chill with each touch.
Death's mouth met mine as he breathed life back into me.
Everything went dark, and I sat up with a start, alone in my cold bed.