Comfort in holding the gun..

To feel the weight in my hand, the cold of its steel against my lips, playing with the trigger, but never quite enough to pull.
It’s laying here in bed with me, I’ve been laying in bed most all day, I lay in bed most all days, till eventually get up, maybe buy a burrito or go for a run.
I think about her, and how her brother used the gun, how her father used the gun, how my father used the gun.
Too many guns.
I think of all the other hers, the ones that almost were, the most recent hers, but still it all comes back to one.
Just a week ago it was good, and now fallen apart again. We’re always coming together and falling apart.
Maybe it has something to do with the guns, that we both know what it’s like. But I fear this is the last time, not really fear, know.
The distance too far a divide to bridge once again.
No amount of going out for sushi, bring back that smile, that look in her eyes.
No more her coming over, find something completely inane on Netflix and pass out in the first 20 minutes, her involuntary twitching keeping me up through the night, waking up a royal grump, but making her breakfast anyway.
It’s what you do for someone you love.
You look past what annoys and revel in what’s deeper.
We’ve revelled on and off for 2 years now, but I feel like she’s through.
I’ll still always love her, miss her, and want what’s best for her.
And so instead of her, I hold the gun.
A sorry substitute,
hard polymer handle in my hand instead of hers.
But she never really liked holding hands anyways.