The glass of the bottle is cold against my cheek.
The last of the beer slips down my throat,
still a cool ribbon of silk.
I have held this last gulp in my mouth
till all the bubbles have dashed themselves against the back of my teeth.
Finally in this moment, my senses are on end.
The arms of the chair she bought are wool;
they hook and pull at my rough elbows.
The bulb in the lamp she bought
warms the side of my face;
not so strange perhaps.
She always said everything was simply a movement of energy.
The thought comforts me.
The thought comforts me and I lift the gun to my mouth.
The grip is hard in my hand, the barrel strangely soft against my lips,
so here I go, moving my energy down the road.