A shot

So, I found myself in front of a drink tonight. Sitting, on the couch, by the lamp. Its fluorescent halo dazzled my tired eyes.

I spent the day awake and drowsy, with a constant, unrelenting ache.

I knew I could spend the night in a similar fashion.

My drink sat on the table, right next to my left hand. Its green liquid fire smoothly slides against my throat before it ignites my lungs.

And I find myself alone, sitting on this couch, listening to the whistle of the wind. I catch myself thinking of you, hours and days after you have left. But you were gone all along. In your own world where I could not reach you, I couldn't touch you.

I drink and the liquor soothes the scratches on my heart, the scars you never meant to leave. I'd apologise for my rudeness, but you're not here to hear my pathetic justifications – because there is no one I can offer which would compensate the abyss that sprang open between us.

I sit alone and I sip, lonely but warm because of the alcohol. And it doesn't taste as bad as it did when I used to drink it from your lips. You used to claim mine then in an effortless fight which I was doomed to lose. I succumbed to your magisterial arts and I was imbued in your sin.

Now I lie alone with a shot glass and a shot gun, on the floor where we used to be together.

My eyes roll to the side, a shot or not a shot?

I take the glass, first, and I ponder, about our future and the "what it could have been" but it will never be. It enflames my tongue as I am no longer allowed to speak to you.

I take the gun next, a fine piece of artillery, it has even got a signature inscribed on it. It is just me, the empty alcohol glass and a single silver bullet. It smells like roses, the gunpowder, as I pull the trigger and plunge into darkness.

It smells of roses and of you.