As the rain falls outside,
I can hear my name being called
by a thunder deep in my chest.
I anticipate the lightning
from a stainless steel muzzle.
I open the glovebox,
a prelude to opening my skull.
Freeing the contents,
mitigating the chaos.

I sit up and eject the cylinder.
A single bullet sits
with such inherent comfort.
I feel my heart skip a beat
before idling in the chasm
where it resides.

The night is wet and curious.
Towering, lean shadows
from voyeuristic trees
peer in through water-beaded glass.
I look with my eyes
but hide with my soul.
I want to be done
feeling so haunted,
so afraid and worthless.
A beacon of futility
unfit for this world.
Out of place; I want to be
out of sight, out of mind.
Beckon my extinction;
release me from these shackles.

I take a deep breath;
it uproots my organs
in a sense of relief.
I return the cylinder
and finger the trigger.
It's cold and unforgiving,
as it rightfully should be.
Then I gaze down,
staring into the abyss
of that frigid steel barrel.
My end, my perpetual fate.
What awaits me?
Fear trickles down my spine.
Brine stings my eyes.
This is the end of the line.
Who's to say I'll find solace
in no longer being in this place?

Cowardice replaces
reckless courage.
I remove my finger
and feel a craven tumor
swell in my chest.
I really am futile,
aren't I?
Another submission
to life and its hold on me.

I let go of a gathered breath
and lean toward the glovebox.

A shape in the passenger seat
takes hostage my pulse.
I withdraw, revolver still
in my clammy hands.
I wield it not as a weapon,
but like a relic with which
I know not to do.
I stare at the shape,
which hides in a veil of shadow.
And then it shifts,
form and figure taking place.
Illuminated by whatever source,
its features become apparent.
Her features.

I demand to know who she is.
Her characteristics are dark
despite a pallid complexion,
inexorably beautiful
yet rugged in parts,
exhibiting strength and genuine struggle.
It pales in comparison to mine.
My curiosity ensnared,
I nonetheless feel a pulse
of tension and apprehension.
I cannot ignore the tangibility
of her presence,
nor the ripple in reality
due to her arrival.
What a fucking entrance.

The air surrounding her is thick,
I can feel it inside the car;
inside me.
I ask again, less a demand
and more a question,
who she is and what she wants.
She tilts her head; long black hair
not unlike the wet night
cascades down, shapeless.
She speaks without a sound,
her eyes like a billion vocal chords
reaching deep into my soul.

In less words, she tells me
to do it.
Perplexity seizes me.
I look down; her frigid hand
has caressed my knuckles.
They are scarred and callused.
She seems unfazed.
Her hand guides mine
back to the gun, slipping a finger
to stroke the trigger.
Her eyes alone,
eclipsed moons,
beckon me to finish what I started.
To not let fear of the unknown
conquer my destiny.

That word seeps out of her gaze
and drips down the jagged cliffs
composing my soul.
I hear the ricochet
and sense something grand
in those radiantly dark eyes.
They are far from finite,
and her touch feels celestial.

Her voice begins to break
the silence cloaking us.
Each syllable courses through me,
commandeering abandoned nerves
and derelict muscles.
A perpetual, abyssal echo
that resurrects tiny stars
beneath my flesh.

"What if I said you were meant for more?"

I seek to taste
the meaning of her last word,
its boundaries and parameters.
I seek to feel
the extent of my calling,
not in the rain and darkness,
but in a distant place
I'd been avoiding all my life.

When she smiles,
I feel it on my face
and within my bones.
I pursue her words
and close my eyes;
albeit not for the last time.

("you were meant for more")