I stare death right in the face.

Death stares back with an inviting gaze. 

Neither of us says a word, just standing here, getting older.

But then I feel a calm hand placed on my shoulder. 

The guy looks like me, but he has to be maybe in his late thirties.

He says it’s not time yet, death does not yet deserve me. 

I realize who he is, with that scar on his forehead, the messy brown hair, and the hazel eyes.

There’s no question I–He’s the one that can’t exist if I were ever to die. 

He urges me, “Keep fighting, no matter how bad your luck.

Whatever you do, whenever you get knocked down, always get back up.” 

For some reason I trust him, while death just stands there and waits.

I turn and walk away with the man, not to return to this debate. 

So if someone looks a little too down or is just unusually quiet,

Speak up, ask them, “How are you?”; break the chance of permanent silence.