Sitting

I sit by the window
watching the rain.
Patches of light
slip through the clouds
and paint the gray
with splashes of blue.
I stare at the gun
in my hands.
It is a revolver.
A six shooter.
I have two bullets loaded
in the cylinder.
I will probably only need
One.
But I am a careful person.
I marvel at the weight
and the balance.
Such a heavy piece of metal,
a small steel sculpture.
So easy to come by.
I’ve never owned a gun
for fear that I would use it.
And now, when I will use it
I am not afraid.
I watch the rain
reach the window
and slide down the pane.
Slide down the pain.
There is a pad of paper
on the table next to me
and a pen.
I’ve been sitting here
for hours.
I don’t know what to write.
I’m not sorry.
I won’t write that.
But I do want to say
Good-bye
to the people who have cared
about me
and cared so long.
In the end I write the names
of all of these people
and I do say I’m sorry.
I’m simply sorry
they have cared
and I have let them down.
But I also write
that I am happy.
Happier than I’ve been
in so long.
Happy to leave
pain behind.
Uncontrollable,
inconsolable
pain.
My death shouldn’t be sad.
It’s natural to die.
It’s noble to choose when.
I push the pad away
and cap the pen.
The rain has strengthened.
The light has retreated.
I raise the gun
hoping one bullet
will be all I need.