Woe is Me, I Guess.

I met Death last night.

It was a brief, ever-fleeting thing.

I suppose they're never too fond of sticking at the scene much longer, I can't help but wonder why.

I met Death and asked him about you.

I asked him why he had to take you from me.

You with your messy hair and tiny pretty smile,

You with your little class of stuffies all lined up and all those big, beautiful dreams..

I whisper that you were too young with all the huff-and-puff indignation of a dead body.

I do not blame him, I think he's been blamed enough.

But then again, I never quite knew grief until I lost myself.