I live on the second floor of a two room apartment.
He lives in a constant hell hail of bullets saying bang.

I shield my face with a hand from the early morning sun,
Squinting the left eye close.
He shields his battered body from the storm of lead,
Left eye blinded by pain.

I lay in silence contemplating fantasy scenarios,
Daydreams of Heroism and Valor.
He crawls in agony and stammers misshapen caws,
Anthems which beg for release.

I often, from day to day wish for a pause in this stream
Endless, filled with nothing. Void of resolutions or conflict.
He constantly, every second feels the impact of consequence
Endless, results of ignorance. Occupied with fault or blame.

I want release.
He craves attention.

I see a future, stale and dull. Gray and less than ordinary.
He lives an existence of pain. Torture and mental decay.

I catch but a glimpse of his suffering. It seems eternal.
He sees only a moment of my nothing. He pities me.

I, briefly, put my ear to his lips.
The bullet ridden corpse speaks.
He whispers, though weak and raspy.

“Shoot me. Again.”