He swallows the last bit of white wine,
and places the glass back onto the table.
He runs his hands through his greasy hair,
and lightly tugs at the follicles
to know if he could still feel.
With a pen placed in his right hand,
the hand drops down onto the paper
and the ink begins to smudge.
He can't do it.

Inhale.
Exhale.
He scoffs, and jogs to his drawer.
And there it is.
The life-ender.
He stares down the barrel of barren dreams,
and begins to play with the revolver.
He tosses it into each of his hands,
emoting the last bit of glee that has been missing
for a while now.
Inhale.
And this time,
there was no exhale.