i took a picture as she died, i think it blew her mind
i tried to save that left of her—as such, was i unkind?
i was, as they say, fond of her, but think i went too far
to take a picture saving bliss but perpetrating scars;
i could have been there, at her side, my hand enmeshed with hers,
but was instead behind a lens, which pain and beauty blurs.
i have the picture on my desk—or sometimes, in a drawer;
it's painful-bright and vibrant-dull, as now she is no more!
i wish i could have spoke four words: i love you, Annabelle!
but now i'll always have her face, which is but just as well.