If only my coffin is your neck

"Are you really good? Or are you just afraid?"

I heard it again. As silence slowly creeped down the hallway and into my room, as the city began to wear it's best white gown of December, slowly smiling back at the dark, mysterious sky. As the wind danced around with the cold, as the moon glared at me from afar, as the shadows blinked back, I heard it again. 

I heard it again when the passing trees through my car's window no more looked like a blurring aesthetic video. The trees seemed more like they were running, running to catch up to me. To plunge their branches into me.

I heard it again when the stars in the sky looked like needles pressed into the clouds. I heard it again when the midnight's darkness was of very little comfort, especially when this darkness started to seep into body too. 

But as I burried my face in your neck, and breathed along with the rhythm of your heartbeats, all I could hear was a distant humming. A space that personified peace. 

So bury me if you have to, and I'll play dead, if only my coffin is your neck.