last bullet

The leaves were the color of a freshly newborn child, that purplish red of a soon to be bruise. The sunlight filtered down and dappled the ground. A slight breeze tried to blow from the north but sputtered before really doing much. And I sat with my back against the tree, wondering how it all came to be. Sorrow and regrets waltzing through my head in perfect time. It wasn’t like this before. Funny how that is the only designator necessary. There is only before and now. Before was kittens and candy and smiling faces. Now is pockmarked whores and broken dreams. The scent of smoke lingers on everything. I sold my last bullet to a blind man with a guitar. He gave me the kindness of witness to his final desperate act. I didn’t bother closing his eyes after he slumped to the ground. Perhaps in that final moment the light shined one last time, captured in the milky white of eternity.

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