short stories: A Cold Frost

Her body was just lying there in the bed, all tender and sweet.

She was an angel, but not just any angel, she was the Angel of Death.

To love her was to die for her. I remember when she used to lie there and and in the evening I would cme upstairs and welcome her to a new night.

I would caress her soft creamy white face with my fingertips, that would zing whenever I touched her, and with a red rose I would run it over her crimson lips.

Oh those crimson lips, I would touch mine own to hers and breathe life into her body.

She would magically come to life and her eyes would slowly open revealing two mesmerizing eucalyptus green eyes with little flecks of crystal blue water at the edges.

In those eyes of hers I used to see the world, our world, and only us.

But now it is all gone. She didn't get up and go but rather her soul got up and left, leaving her in an inanimate state on the fine line between life and death.

She will no longer open her eyes and let me see our future.

My skin doesn't zing like it used to. My angel is still here, her lips are still crimson and her skin is still creamy and soft.

And above all, she is still my angel of death, for I would die for her even though she is already dead.

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