We had no portraits of her
we had nothing in our heads but her face
alive and well
dining and singing and laughing
and sometimes sinning with Edgar.
When she coughed up the blood
the crimson stained her lips
and her cheeks would flush
looking like a painted lady
out on a holiday.
Edgar stared at her as she died
his eyes bulging ever so slightly
and within his breathing you could hear
the sound of a breaking soul
which had been held together with string
that had now been let loose.
The watercolorist drew her
with her eyes half open,
as if fighting sleep after a long, hard day.
“Let her sleep,” he said. And she did.