Western

The closest-I-can-get-to-a-gun rests in my pocket.

My closest-I-can-get-to-spurs ring a dull woody tile noise, and I do my best to stomp into my
Something-like-a-saloon.

There's a so-far-from-a-friend-that-he-must-be-foe slicked forward in a chair, and he watches
my hand jerk forward and

Click, Clang: it lands on the shoulder of his heart to twirl her around, and she smiles like a silly bird.

Oh! the blood. Rivers and pools in the desert that was his closest-I-can-get-to-a-jungle before I showed.

That is the closest I will come to Life or Death.