The scents and sensibility of death were overpowering
as the suicide's wife entered the room they had shared
for so many moons as spouses.
Paltry things sprang to mind, how death becomes her,
how the black angels would have borne her soul -
which way?
Yet, the lasting memory she bore was the feeling:
despair and hope intermingled in the spirit left behind.
Sometimes she would speak to her wife
as though she were still present:
"Betty, the poem in your pocket told me so much!
I love you for the depth and profound being it shows.
I hate you for your denial of showing
me this side of you while we could share it.
But mostly, I miss you, my dearest one."
