“Your violin is the color
I want my coffin to be,”
she silently stammered,
clutching the paintbrush
desperately,
and blinking three times.

It’s the way blue eyes look
stunning stung by tears,
the immaculate sublimity
of comedy and tragedy, heaven
and hell, paper and plastic,
caught within a bloodshot gaze.

“It’s solemn and beautiful,”
she considered confiding,
as she dropped her meager
instrument down to the floor,
“like the way that it weeps,”
she did not continue,

restlessly remembering the music
which had made her feel alive.