No, don't start. Baby is a bullet traveling up the barrel to taste the thick rough wet roof of my mouth. Your smile is shining, but your teeth are curved away. Baby, you're a bullet ruining me with a bang of sounds of her in your bed. Your new girl looks like your ex; now I know your type. Bullet, you're my baby too far away from me to touch your cold dark shell, hot in my head. You told me it was inevitable. I don’t know why you bothered to begin. Bullet is a baby held precious in the center of my chest, along with the nurture of regret. Next week I'll be in town; will you meet me?