I saw him in a pawn shop on Fifth.  

 We looked at each other in fascination.  

 A reflection of each other’s cheap tastes.  

 I loved the smoothness of his barrel.   

He was cold to my eye and warm to the touch. 

He belonged to another; a serial number  

Told me so.   

He wasn’t loaded, empty of all ammunition.   

 Wanting to do nothing, 

but stroke him,  

I opted to hold him for a while.  

 Knowing what it felt like to hold someone of my kind 

 made me realize,  

I couldn’t live without him.  

There is always that temptation to put him between my lips 

 and blow my fucking brains out.