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.
