From where I sit, I see you move.

Glasses off, I can barely make out what books line my shelves, but you I see clearly.

My eyes make your outline shimmer in the dying daylight, and I see your scythe slide out of the paper it is painted on.

I see the blade shine in the light.

Your eyes don't move,

Your eyes never move,

But they follow me about just the same, glowering down at me, echoing promises of inevitability. Boring into me from a pained face hidden by a painted cloak.

But your eyes aren't painted, or if so the painter must be dead, for no one can bring death to them and live.

They follow me until I leave the room, and occasionally I wonder,

I wonder what you think when I step out, back bared to your blade,

I wonder what you think when I sleep before your very eyes, ever vulnerable,

I wonder when you'll decide my time is up, swing your scythe blade and strike me down.

Inspired by the picture of the Grim Reaper on my bedroom wall.

Skull Bearer.