I drag the barrel end of the pistol across the desktop

tickling its surface

as it slowly furrows it microscopic path of unintended consequences

the sheer weight of the gun hits my thigh

leaving a small bruise that later the autopsy report would recall as 'odd'

the calmness was alarming

the calculated cold intention

where was the spark?

the pilot light we call hope

for surly the gas was spewing forth frantically

the tickling continued along my thigh

the gun's barrel on its inevitable crusade

I learned something that day

the world can offer all the gas it wants

but if the pilot light is not lit

the passion for living is just gone

and cannot be ignited