Silver

As we drink wine, day turns into night, laughter and frolic ends and you put my gun to your head, say, I'll do it.  This is not unlike the razor to your wrist, the car running in the garage port, the one foot hanging off the ten-story ledge. Your ice cold eyes used to entrance me, the lure of northerly volcanic landscapes, but now, they're dull rocks found in a quarry. There are silver bullets in that gun, I say, lethal to the undead but I'm sure not you. You press it harder to your head as I stare at you, knowing you won't do it, as I say, go on already, the night's still young, get it over with so we can keep on going; you, however, relent, collapse in tears. So I fill our glasses, but you stand and leave, slamming the door on your way out, leaving me with nothing to do but polish off that wine and more, watching night turn into day, spinning the gun with my finger, waiting for you to return, as you always will.