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The bullets are loaded,
like words-
the things we have said
and the things we've heard.
Finger
on the trigger,
I doubt we have the courage
to pull the thing...
to finalize and discourage
this romantisizing.

Now, I myself admit,
these are crimes of passion,
an all to willing hit
and an all to eager miss...
For what you have never had
you never must give up,
a band-aid for a bullet wound,
i know,
and its just not enough.

So when you put the pistol
to my temple,
to my brain,
and use te barrel as a crossroad
know our paths are not the same-
From this I found
ultimatums are dangerous friends,
I call them fleeting visitors,
that find their means in their ends.

So lets load these bullets now
and pour ourselves a drink,
we can play some Russian roulette,
spill our hearts and stomaches
into the sink.

And as we circle the drain
day in
and day out,
we will wait to pull the trigger
when there is nothing left to doubt...

"COWARD!" 'coward' i say...
you look at me blank and tell me
"but your the one who ran away."
But truly, I know, stares are never blanks,
merely shells of fired shots
that bridge silence with implicit planks.

I often contemplate death,
of love and many things,
but with you I will always fail to pull the trigger,
because our nothing
is my everything.