Icy

It started as a whisper, a rustle in the trees, given no attention, written off as just a breeze. Then came the feeling, in the dark, of being watched, tried to ignore it, tried to blow it off. Walking, being followed, footfalls from behind, paranoid and worried, glancing back from time to time. Figures, shadows, movement, from the corner of the eye, something's getting nearer and you think that you know why. Aging, slowing down now, you can feel it catching up. Can you read the tea leaves in the bottom of your cup? The demeanor of the doctor knocks the wind out of your sails, feeling disembodied as you sense your face grow pale. You know you can't outrun it, death is nipping at your heels, try to keep it secret, no one knows how bad you feel. Try to find some peace now, but it's breathing down your neck. and, God, it's breath is icy, though its path is circumspect. ©Danielle White