Loving with a gun

I was told to love freely. Without a bouquet of flowers in my hand.

We act aloof and save our amorous  behavior for movie screens. 

And eventually in the din of night, since we are in a city, I profess

to the clamor my love for you. And you smile. Softly tapping on the subway railing, 

as countless people pass us by, hearing our cheesy high school love sputtered 

with countless tropes. Unfortunately there were no red roses and boxes of chocolates. 

Language has become devoid of such niceties, we don't like to taste our words. 

Still what I could not see was the gun you had behind your back. The one you would pull

right when I stopped speaking. Love is not sacred. We are not in love. One cannot love

without a gun. Yet you insist that you love me. 

The barrel is rigged and long. It's iron surface is smooth, similar to the surfaces of the skyscrapers above us.
The inside of the barrel is dark and narrow. It's darkness impenetrable. Similar to the tunnels we are currently in. 

The handle is covered in leather. Your bag isn't real leather. 

And the glossy trigger, curved in just the right way is far more lovely than your curves. 

Yet you insist that I love you.

And so you take me as an imaginary hostage. I am not cuckolded. I am not not deceived. You are not my Eve.

I learned from you how to shoot a gun. And now I'm a pretty good shot. We teach countless people how to shoot. 

I remember when you told me about the person who taught you how to shoot. It was a year before you shot me. 

He did not love you. He did not profess much. He merely spoke with niceties garbing his hands. I don't blame you. I like stuff too. 

And now I am upon someone again. Chamber ready, taking three step backs, knowing I have come to the point where all those around us have become accustomed to the duel we call love.