Unavoidble Cliche

You want to know how I know I love you?
I'm mad as hell right now.
Really god damned pissed.
And I don't want to kill you, not even a little bit.

See I start writing these stories about brown eyed boys, and they all end up dogs and kids and cold pizza. I try to pull a gun out of my coat pocket. My brown hair is falling into my eyes and as always there is some overly described fixture in the room or some strange smell in the air. But instead of aiming the gun at your head my fingers release it, one by one, until it drops harmlessly to the floor.

Damn it, why can't I kill you? I even killed Ashely, once or twice. Gil died. And whatever his name would have been in that high school soap, that blue eyed creep died in some of the most horrify and fascinating ways ever conceived.

So try something else. This time we are in a car going way too fast and suddenly you take your eyes off the road and I can feel us drifting across the double lines. In three slow seconds I can hear the whoosh of the wind over the chrome finish of the car that's coming in the other direction.
"GOD DAMN IT JON!" I scream, grabbing the wheel and righting us in time for a loud protest in the form of the other car's horn.

I can't let you die.
And I used your name. Because no matter how much I try, you will never be a "Rhett" or a "Darcy," even on paper. You are who you are, you are Jon.

And I love you. Damn it. I love you.