The Bullet & The Blank.

Tragic love letter projectile.
Echoes syncopate with a hestitant heartbeat.
Although pity can be a safeguard,
I'm still susceptable to this bullet,
vulnerable to this affliction.

I lingered in the passage of this bullet.
Does that make me a martyr?
Allow me a loss of words,
though there are stories I still long to tell.
The story of the bullet who loved the blank.

The bullet who left its residue at the scene of the crime,
where the blank had nothing left to say.
The blank could do no damage, you see.
The aim was always off-course,
because as where the blank could only see the bullet,
the bullet had eyes for more.

The eye of a bullet is a dangerous thing,
leaving your heart at the barrell of the gun.
With blind eyes we can shoot the sky,
or aim for the iris of the sun.

Now the shells of the bullet are left behind,
each marked with a one, two, three.
The fourth round made the holiest damage,
Right inside of me.

Wounds are whispers of our past,
memories burn like gun powder cries.
The blank is now as empty as she ever was,
while the bullet is lost with time.