The Reaper Said

I walked backward
through time’s busted window—
glass dust on my sleeves,
cobwebs clinging like old excuses.

I kept walking
until my legs quit on me.
Sat down on the bank
of some muddy river,
the kind you only find
when you’re tired of pretending.

The boat back to my past
was tied to a splintered dock,
half-sunk,
taking on gray water
like it was finally admitting defeat.

I ended up talking to the Reaper—
not dramatic,
just two worn-out people
sharing memories.
The tea was terrible.
The cookies fell through him.
We laughed anyway.

I asked him why endings matter,
why any of this has to go dark.

He shrugged.
“Why start at all?”

So I told him my reasons—
the real ones,
the ones I never say out loud.

He nodded.
“There you go,” he said.
“Flip the coin.
It’s the same story.”