Appendage

This gun, attached to the side of his head.
He grips the handle.
He can never go further.
Instead, he just slides his hand down to his side.
But it stays, high.
It’s always there; ready.
Pressed against his temple; a metallic appendage.
It’s midnight now.
She decides to leave.
Mutually.
He grips, going further than he ever had.
But he stops.