The nights are growing longer and Lydia is pregnant.
I never planned this, or anticipated it in any way.
She told me over the phone on an idle Tuesday night,
I wonder who the father is?..

...Probably some other man that her love
has taken a hold of, the poor sap.
I somehow wish I could warn him.
Warn him of her...

Regardless we chat of our endeavors since being separate,
or since being alone in my case.

She tells me about her travels and the wonderful people
that she has met along the way, with the airy, bubbly nature
of someone who has found what they've been looking for
their entire life.

In response I consider my lonesome state,
and silently agree with myself that misery
was a much better option than her forced
and bittersweet optimism.

I ask her about her future plans,
and daze out upon her response:

Not even hearing a single word
she says, I imagine a cold ring
of steel pressed firmly against my temple,
and the density of a pistol grip in
my palm accented by the two-pound
weight of a quick-pull trigger
behind my index finger.

I can feel the gun in my hand,
I can smell the expended powder.

Yet still she speaks,
as If I weren't already dead.