sometimes i dream of kissing him,
as if he could save me from this place.
that his featherlight touch against my lips
would do anything but rip me away,
from this world, as if i'd be held up,
and safe, [safer].
sometimes i dream of feeling his touch
against my forehead, a cool caress
speaking freedom, he whispers to me
and i listen, i listen.
he isn't even mine, never was.
i do not even know how i would have held him,
or how he would have felt, touching my throat
or the taste of him.
i do not even know what they would think
when they found us later,
and tried to rip us apart.
but they could never pull us away from each other,
for we would be one,
the bullet & I,
the gun and me.