My Angel of Death is Not

My angel of death has no wings.

Instead, he has hair the colour of night and eyes that carry the oceans in their depths.

His smile, warm and inviting, is a knife in my gut.

My angel of death is no stranger.

Rather, he is the one I loved with a burning flame,

a flame that even now, has not faded to embers.

My angel of death does not tell me my time has come.

Instead, he is the one that whispers, ‘Momento mori’ into my ear,

for everything must come to an end.

My angel of death does not treat me gently.

Instead he breaks my heart, shattering it into shards of glass

that bury themselves into me everytime I breathe.

My angel of death does not lead me into the afterlife.

Instead, he lets me continue to walk the earth.

For while my heart may be broken, the pieces still beat.

My angel of death does not take my soul.

Instead, he saves my life, taking the bullet for me.

He may not be an angel of death, reaping souls from their casings,

But he was my angel, and now he is dead.