I hear the small clinks of the
revolver cartridge turn
the oiled smell and the cordite
can semi see myself in its reflective parts
wavering and wobbly.
You and I are
similarly added to this room its
mourning and attitude
me speaking to you
the furniture remembering where you were
the slants of sunlight
your books, your earrings, your make-up,
colors out of fashion now
the cars you remember are gone
having slipped past their usefulness.
There are some things
hard to speak of
sitting here and holding it all in
to come pouring out.