Echoes of Love and Ectasy

They kissed, hard and heedlessly, because it was the end. Mellifluous absolution. Melting together like one fetal being, as the world crumbled and shrank beneath their feet.

All the colors had faded to the palest shades of gray, echoes of what they had once been. His hand was like a phantom in hers, barely palpable, nothing real and everything memorable. She wanted a reassuring smile, like he used to do, but all he could manage was an imitation. All wrong, faded and torn around the edges. It was never going to be okay.

You can't live forever, a elongated mantra in his head. The pistol was lustorous and smooth in his hand, and matched hers perfectly. Apothecated piece of metal, promising salvation.

The clock was ticking bomb shells, as she said into the night,

"You're only gone when you're forgotten. I want you to remember me always."

Time was running thin. A sigh, a whisper, and it would all be over. Her lips were the color of poison, as they kissed again, for the first time and the last time.

The place where they lived was what did it. Grabbing handfuls of festering skin, and thinking about the future. This place where nihilism and narcissism are all anyone knows.

Don't fool yourself darling, I only love myself.

Vacuous. They had to get out.

They held the guns to eachothers heads, uttering secret vows. The soft flesh of temples drumming, incoherent song racing through their blue veins.

Who shoots first? The question was left hanging in the wind.

Suspirating, closing eyes, they let the words escape their lips one more time.

I love you.

1, 2, 3.

Technicolor blood snaked down, drowned the eyes, painted the face. The pain is unexpected, unwanted, numbing.

He knew he didn't pull the trigger. She watched him die, taking in the shallow breath and all the liquid red. The sightless eyes were searching for her, but all they could make out were swirling colors, becoming more solid with each staggered beat of the moribund heart.

The last thing he heard was the clicking of heels on the pavement, a voice like honey humming tunelessly.

All he saw was red and black, evanescnet colors like the stars.

A/N:

Originally, I was going to post something that wasn't as cynical as this, but this is all I ended up typing up. I hate Valentines day. Stupid mockery of a holiday.

Inspired by William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch, don't ask me why or how. The title comes from a KMFDM song called "Piggybank". Technically the line is "Echoes lovin' ectasy" but that doesn't fit as well. I took something I had written before but never finished, that reminded me way too much of an AFI song, and re-wrote it.

Review please.