The Last

I have longed for that one
The perfect, last cool-skinned bullet
My saliva wets the hard barrel
A sinister kiss
It feels cold and dead against my teeth
With both hands I grasp the rough handle
My finger squeezes the trigger
That bullet, the precious liberating bullet
Resting in its cold sleep
Soon to be awaken
The shining cylinder racing through the barrel
An explosion, cold and calculated
Unforgiving and vicious
The gun only a machine to deliver
A servant to the bullet and operator