The Gun.

Rose petals decay on the bed we once loved in.
The once open windows dark with cobwebs.
In the kitchen you will find rotting food from what was once supposed to be a romantic dinner.
In the living room the tv has long since lost power where it used to play the sports channel.
In the garage, no one parks anymore.
The flowers by the porch are brown and dead and hold no vibrance.
The children who were supposed to laugh and play are dead and gone.
They never even existed anyway.
The mail box overflows.
Copies of the divorce paperwork that was never signed.
A broken, empty home.
But it can tell you a million stories.
The dark stain splashed across the bathroom tiles.
The splatters of red leading to the bedroom.
Scattered among the decaying rose petals.
Two rings lay clasped together almost desperately amongst the musty bed covers.
And there on the floor lies the gun.