the evidence of ****** is soaked into your skin.

the red of his blood feels like lava on your dried hands.



sweetheart. pretty boy.

                      why in the world did you have to go?



The revolver has planted its body on the tile,



the same cold tile your own body is sinking into.



i love you,

but it's too much for my own good.



i suppose that's how i ended up on this floor.



his skull is punctured in like a never ending cave,

you want to dig out your eyes so you wouldn't have to see where he had gone.



                  he's too far gone to be found, anyway.



crying doesn't feel like pleading for him to come back,

it feels like pleading to join him.



but the gun is out of bullets.



The gun is out of bullets.