gunshot
perfect circle in the middle of the forehead, like enlightenment. it is bloody and red, the wind seeps through it. a third eye unblinking, or forever closed, depending on how you look at it. fingers ghost over it, cold as the rest of the corpse. the mouth open in a perfect O of surprise, like they can't imagine this has happened to them. brains, blown out the back of the head, slowly cooking on the pitch black tarmac. it's beautiful, really, the pink and red and grey. you'll miss it when it's gone.