Sixteen 02.28.10

I have been playing Russian Roulette all day while you coast through my mind.

My right hand, sporting the Quenya scrawl that reveals the Elvish word "Forever" chokes up on the backstrap. The webbing of my hand compresses against it pressing into my tattoo and distorting it, curling it into an unmerciful ripple of tension. My thumb curls down for strength. My itchy trigger finger flexes at the distal joint, wrapping around the cold hard edge of the trigger affording me maximum leverage. I am holding it like small quail, the way the cowboys in days of old would have taught their sons and heirs to hold it. Like a delicate quail sporting the colors of your hair for its wings, I am holding it firmly enough that it can't fly away from my grasp, but not hard enough to bruise its delicate feathers. I slide the hammer back, now my grip changes, it is more forceful. All my fingers but my index curl into a occupied fist. I am preparing for the kick back, I am keeping my breathing low and steady, aiming through the sights at my target. And I squeeze the trigger in a single fluid motion. The empty click of each rough I attempt to fire mocks me, the same way this silence between us mocks my love for you.

I have been trying to find the one bullet that will bring us peace.

I have been trying to find the round which will let you know that I want nothing but the best for you, but that I am sick with longing.

I have been trying to find the lead which will punch out a hole in this darkness and let the light come streaming into this place of blindness.

I have been trying to find the cartridge that will pierce through this wall you have put up between us and show you there is nothing to fear here.

I have been trying to find the slug that will cease this madness between us and let you know that if you want me, I am right here for the taking. There are no mistakes or any wounds to the ego that can be made in this endeavor if you wish to return and truly see I am changed.

I have been trying to find the love letter that will fly home to its target, animating this revolver with the first thundering crack of gunfire and let you know, this was not a warning shot.

Did you know that they sometimes call ammunition "love letters"? And here I thought I was just being metaphorical. Funny that, when the metaphor and reality start to blur. For instance, I re-read Memory Trace today and like a flood all my memories of you came flashing into my mind. Turns out I never could forget anything about you. No, nothing about you has really escaped my vision, my memory, or my heart.

I keep remembering the way you sounded the last time I fucked you. I keep having my vision haunted by your face, contorted in pleasure while you whispered violently and trembled against me. Just as I wrote you in Tailored, as always, you made the word "fuck" sing when you said it. Even in that moment you were too good to be real, I knew, I wasn't even giving you everything I wanted to.

Now my heart aches to hold you once more, to let you know that these arms were made to love you. You can hide, you can try to run away from this, but I know you know somewhere deep inside you it is only a matter of time before we are together again. It is only a matter of time before you will not be able to distract yourself any longer, clouding your vision, keeping you from seeing me pleading for your hand. It is only a matter of time before you understand that I really am taking this seriously, that I am changing for myself and for you in all the right ways. It is only a matter of time before you remember that you said you wanted to use this time to grow as well, and not to revert and withdraw into your pain.

Everyone is commending me on a job well done. Everyone is impressed with my growth thus far. Everyone is loving the change that has been brought about in me. Everyone but you. Because you will not afford yourself eyes to see me clearly yet, you suffer in self imposed darkness. I could enlighten you with one glimpse if you would like. I could show you that there's nothing I want more than for you and I than to be able to communicate again, as we used to, through the majesty of your pen.

Your words haunt me still. Do you remember all the poems you used to write me? A Stroke of Posture is trying to break me down and cause my shoulders to sag with grief. And yet, it is making my posture more confident. It is telling me that there is no possible way you could forget the love you had for me in just 16 days. It is telling me what you have said is true, that you will never replace my throne in your heart. But will you not let me grace it once more? I am not asking for much, truly. I am only asking for some direction from you on how to proceed. I am only asking that you communicate some small sentiment to me so that I may know that you still want me.

Is that such a terrible thing to ask you for? Some minor form of contact? Write to me, I know you have it within you. Remember that is one of the things you said you would work on, how to communicate better? And even if you don't want me, communicate that. Afford me the dignity to know what it is in your heart. I honor you by letting you know all that is in mine, regardless of how it may hurt or "embarrass" me in the future, still I let you know: I have not forgotten you, I have not stopped loving you, I have not stopped wanting you.

Part of me imagines that you find solace in these words, the way I write to you everyday. Meanwhile, I am tortured still by grief, uncertainty, and a growing nagging worry that you despise me. Why else would you keep your heart and mind from me this way? Why else would you keep me from you, without even a shred or a clue of your feelings, your wishes, your hopes and dreams?

Are you afraid of me?

This is a reality that would be too much for me to bear. What cause have I given you reason to fear? This gun in my hand, it is not meant for you. It's meant for the obstacle of fear, ego, and boundary you spread out between us like the length of a firing range. I am so close, at any moment you could beckon me and I would come, I would come and hear all that you have to say to me. I would cherish those words, I would cherish the contact you afforded me, the chance to know you, the chance to discover you.


My feet shift wider into a power stance, the revolver hands listlessly at my side. I drop it in the sand at my feet. There are never enough words I can muster to show you how I want you in my life. There are never enough words that I can load into the barrel of this gun and fire into the ether. There is never enough shooting practice that will prepare me for the one time I pull that trigger and the bullet I knew was in there all along flies free, startling me, because I almost thought there weren't any loaded at all until then.

I have been playing Russian Roulette all day while you coast through my mind for nothing.

I am putting away this revolver in a velvet lined case tonight that bears your name written out in shapes of mother of pearl inlay. I am placing my hand over it as it clicks shut, and a heavy heart is thudding my pulse against its heartwood frame. If you would send me one small glimmer of what you are wanting, as loud but as deafening as a shotgun blast, I will remove each ball of buckshot from the hole in my chest and catalog the letters left there to reveal your message.