I left you on the porch with a .45 betwixt your teeth.
It smashed willfully against the surrounding porcelain.
Reminding nerve endings of their existence.
You were asphyxiating on marble sized tears.
Reminding airways and their owner of their existence.
Something about being alone.
Something about being scared.
Something about being different intermittently spilling with spit over thick, wet lips.
Tell me like you mean it this time.
Let me hear it like I care.
The words that slap the inner workings of my ears are more exhausted than the tongue that sends them into space.
I’m a famished faggot, devouring a dish of apathy.
A whimper tumbles down the length the barrel, over your hand, and onto silent air.
A Danse Macabre it does.
An expression as cliched as this concrete quagmire that once connected you and me in better days.
Bits of bridge that remain between us.
It used to know pleasant traffic.
You’re so upset.
You hate what you’ve done to us.
I hate what I’ve done to me.
2.44 lbs. lets you know it’s there when it rattles.
Wet, bitter metal offensively alerts you of it’s presence when it shakes off and shutters against the particles that cling to it.
Some particles you can’t see.
Back and forth.
Betwixt your clammy fingers.
You sit ten steps away from where I stand.
I know this because I counted every one when I walked away from you.
Each one was lighter than the next.
I’m being liberated.
My foot trenched into the promise of freedom.
The rest of me is following like the heavy metal I love.
Yours whispers to a finger print.
Mine clamors with Elation.
Aspirations of drowning out that drone.
Something about being depressed.
Something about being abused.
Something about being disgusted with who you are, now dropping out of your mouth to pool in the atmosphere of your proximity.
The saturation is overwhelming and it’s starting to clot.
I’m amazed I made it out alive.
I’m amazed that I don’t care.
I’m amazed that I’m happy to be out.
I’m amazed that it took me so long.
But playing whipping boy to Hindsight is no longer requisite of this process; there is hope in this.
Upon setting you down, I garner the gift of open hands.
One free to pick myself up and out of those shadows and step into this bliss.
The words are becoming more inaudible now.
Thoughts translate to chemicals and assemble a smile upon my face.
This one feels alien, tugging on sinewy cables rarely called into action beside you.
An alien I adore in it’s presence.
At seventeen steps you pull the trigger.
At seventeen, the wire in that trigger detonates this mess.
At seventeen, the shrapnel laden incendiaries besetting the columns of that concrete quagmire engulfs this umbilical cord of plague in its own apocalyptic conflagration.
At seventeen steps history won’t recognize this or us.
The trigger will throw that slug the twenty centimeters where it belongs in roughly point zero-zero-six seconds.
I count seventeen for the fifth time.
I assume I’ve done the math right.
And for the moment, I hear that crack echo through a space that’s split-second making like a supernova.
The moment I realize you’re now out of both of our heads...
Now, what was it I needed to take care of today?