Perhaps, we were too much of morphine to each other,
Perhaps, we smoked the dew drops of our skins, a little too often,
We were a moribund hope to each other,
Or perhaps we were playing Russian roulette,
And when the gun used to kiss your temple,
I used to whisper a prayer,
And it went on,
You to me, me to you,
We took turns,
And each shudder of our fingers,
Used to scream, “what have we done to each other.”
Perhaps we were just two mesochists tied to the same bedpost,
Or perhaps anguish was our foreplay, a little too often.
We still keep taking turns,
And when the gun touches my temple,
All I look at is your lips,
And it gives me a rush to see,
The words you mumble aren’t a prayer,
Or if they are,
They aren’t for me.