Death (as I had known her until then) was a red dress. In a country song she kissed tequila on the mouth and did not blink-- you were never the same but she was never any different.
Death as I had known her was not cruel. She was impatient. She ate when she wanted. All things must eat, and Death was a thing that was hungry.
I had not met Death dressed like this.
I had not met her with long fingers. I had not met her on days when she decided to stay. To make herself at home. I had not seen Death at breakfast, or floating in the tub with her eyes closed, hair fanned out into the bubbles while the mirrors fogged.
I think, until then, I had not met Death. Only the signs of her: absence. blood. a closed door with water flooding underneath it.
I had seen Death's footprint, but not her toes in the sand.
I had not known Death to take her time, but here she is, still. The sun comes up, and up. I do not know how long it will take.