"Are You Afraid Of Dying?"

She asked.
I slowly lifted my head and made contact with those firm grey eyes of hers, she meant the words that escaped her lips, for this question is one I've come prepared for.
"I'm not afraid of dying; I'm afraid of not being able to do the things I've always wanted to do, and I'm in fear of being unable to say the things I've always wanted to say."
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And I'll cry, tremble and shake in wrath as you lock me into your arms.
"I won't let go" you'd say, but oh, I will.