we spoke softly
on this rainy morning
in a sterile hospital
room,
both wounded
by blood soul
and lymphocytes
not friendly fire,
a soft knock at the door
the physician entered
gallantly - smiling
and shook both
of our hands
with confidence
he provided his forecast,
we were stunned
by the revolver
with the
cocked hammer
and everything
that once was ordinary
and permanent,  
was abruptly transient
and detached
we clutched our
sweaty hands
into nihility
staring at the slugs
in the cylinder  
of love and life
only one pull away
from the white tunnel
and the darkness
near or far-off
she and I
into this
till the end
of our
days.