Was there a note? she asked.
Nothing we could find, I said.
(isn't the gun quite enough
to say that she is dead?).

Was she acting strange? I asked.
Nothing out of the ordinary, she said.
(the body's now inert,
from where the soul has bled).

Suicide comes quietly,
oft times, without a clue;
is the heart that now lies dead,
the one we really knew?

What of her charm and smile?
what of the love and laughter?
why leave a grotesque answer,
to what we call disaster?

You sure there is no note? she asked.
Nothing we could find, I said.
I never even suspected, she claimed,
as more copious tears were shed.