the gun looked liked something
he would have seen in a overtly
violent graphic novel, the blood

pouring out her side in comical,
copious, suspend-belief amounts,
an ounce shy of a gallon, he surmised,
surprised once he finished looking on
only to find his reflection returning

a fascinated gaze towards the killer's
fierce stance; he was worse off
than any comic book character he
could have ever read about and the

woman that lay dying seemed as
tragic as any love poem he could
have ever penned. the papers would
sensationalize the situation,

but the simple truth that he hated
her and him and the attachment of
"them" would bore the papers.
coming to grips with such an outcome
made his shots bearable. he thought
the ring of the barrel sounded

extraordinary and imagined he felt
a smile painted on his face as
darkness seemed like the brightest color
the world hadn't yet discovered,
can only discover when the body
goes numb and breathing seems so
superfluous.