Cold Bony Fingers

There are early mornings when the walls are thin, and what or whomever is there on the others side are near enough to touch our minds.

It's the icy finger that traces a frozen line across your heart, whispering to you, reminding you of your fleeting time in this mortal coil. It's a slithering wet sound in the pool of darkness fighting the gathering light.

A reminder of our finite drawn breaths. And how small we really are in the scheme of things.

I usually shiver a lot on those days. Maybe you can tell me if you feel the same when that happens to you. See I told them to go and visit you next.