He is still holding the gun

From which smoke is still slithering

As the body with a bullet in it continues to bleed.

That man on the floor was just killed for me

And in this raw moment I feel nothing but blistering adoration

For the man that holds the gun.

He saves my life with every bullet

And every unknown name he destroys is a tribute to me.

Every heart stopped reminds me of the heart I gave to this man with a gun

And every pool of blood reminds me of everything I lost for him

I would still give more, but I have nothing left

Only mugshots and memories.

Even though each bullet brings us a little closer together

It also drives us apart.

He can almost see me now

But I wonder—does he really want to?

Does he hate doing this for me?

Has he gone from being a man with a purpose

To simply the man with the gun?

But even though I long to hold his hand again

My hands are already held by Death

And his are too full of murder anyway.