Author's Note: Sun and Moon is a small segment of a novel/short story anthology I've been working on tentatively titled Doppelganger, Beartrap. It was one of the easiest, most cathartic pieces I've written thus far and really got my creative juices flowing for the rest of the book. It pretty much stems from all the times I've been screwed over and had my heart broken but haven't had the guts to say anything about it.
I'd catch the dust deep in my throat like tiny spores of dandelions sticking to your linen dress, and in the field that once was as beautiful and lush as your blonde locks that descend down in wavy spirals that smell of exotic fruits I'd never taste or see in my short lifetime and come to a rest on you at the top of your dress on your pale chest. I'd run my hand with all three fingers up your leg and ask what happened to us, what happened to this place.
I've done my best to be the man you've twice denied to marry but never thought twice to lure me in your bed with legs spread. The guns that hang from my belt have become show, trophies of a time I once was known but forgotten long ago.
I want to scoop my guts off the floor with clawed hands but they fall between the missing stubs and right under your stiletto heals where you can stomp and twist them into the ball of clay you've made of me. I want to take my face from your shoulder, I want to take you by the neck and shake you.
"With him? What the hell does he have that I never gave you tenfold!" I'd shout, my mouth so close to yours I could reach out and cut your pink lips with my sharp tongue and I could mash my teeth into yours and split your gums and scope my tongue down your throat and into your increasingly hollow chest to see what color your heart beats. I'd count the skips and come up with zero for every time I told you I love you and I'd watch it increase when we fuck where you shout those desolate sentiments and dig your red nails into my back so you could reach bone, crack spine and drink and dine on what was once mine but I so desperately wished to share with you in its entirety.
"I can feel him inside of me," You say with a shrewd grin, pearly whites like ivory piano keys that play tones that break my heart in the key of bullshit. You'd breath your scintilla cinnamon fire-breath on my ear and tell me about the times you've opened your second heart adorned beautifully at your hips above expensive looking knock off lace that was pulled down and welcome him with open thighs in the church confession booth on Saturday night. I'd feel your tongue hitting the roof of your mouth and the back of your teeth as if to let me know what I could have had only if you weren't the teasing, conniving and disgustingly desperate ice queen that you are.
I'd feel the cold grip of the pistol butt in the palm of my hands and using my middle finger I'd rest it on the trigger like a lion in the bushes watching a baby antelope struggle to find it's newfound sense of balance and lick my chops at the thought of cutting a life so short and letting my incisors tear and rip at the meat on your tiny frame and bring you back home for my young. I hold the gun to your face and laugh as I explain that I'll count to six and watch Dusty Simon find the corks to discarded whiskey jugs to plug up the holes and stop the blood flow.
I grab your sleeve and pull you through the drought raped field and kick dust on your fancy shoes and listen to the fabric of the dress tear and expose and I'd yell for you to hurry on up to watch hubby bite the bullets and give you the chance for some fantastic fuck-like(cause)-you'll-never-fuck-again sex. I kick down the wooden door and our gaze meets at the hollow tube of the gun shaking in my mangled grip and I'd watch him bite his lip till blood stains his shirt and I'd listen to you cry and beg for me to not do this. My middle finger will pull towards me and I'd listen to the crack of the gun and the snap of his collar bone and I'd pour his old, warm whiskey on the wound to clean it up as he takes final breaths with is head in your lap (again).
But I don't, because I can't hold all that courage with these three fingers, and my chest is heaving with disappointment in myself for being so stupid and so fucking useless and I'd cough up the dust bowl as my tears invade the tiny stitches of your dress.
And I'll be the Jesse James to your Robert Ford and watch you wait with baited breaths for me to turn my back so you can shoot your break up bullets into the handles of the thousand knives you've left there over our time together.