passionate peach, the cream acrylic on their wall
filling the textured grooves the trowels had left

almost pink in morning light, taking on the color of
the fruit at eventide, when incandescence reigned  

when fireplace flames flickered, the wall became a fickle facade:
gray in shadow one moment, pale peach the next

his favorite chair sat there, where she thought it looked best,
a worn rocking guest in a room filled with modernity;  

that is where she found him, slumped over, eyes agape
blue metal gun in his lap, where it had landed

after the dead journey from his mouth, after he had
squeezed the trigger but once

painting the flat wall behind him with hues of crimson,
cherry, and bits of white  

what queer shape this scattering had made, she thought;
surely not a visage, though it appeared so  

as she watched in paralytic silence while strangers
washed the gore from the wall  

leaving but a black hole where his rich red legacy
had left its beguiling design