He's gone. She can't believe it, can't go on. She's going to give up painting. So she paints Her final canvas, total-turn-off Black. One long Obsidian goodbye. A charcoal-burner's Smirnoff, The mirror of Loch Ness Reflecting the monster back to its own eye. But something's wrong. Those mad Black-body particles don't sing Her story of despair, the steel and Garnet spindle Of the storm. This black has everything its own sweet way, Where's the I'd-like-to-kill-You conflict? Try once more, but this time add A curve to all that straight. And opposition White. She paints black first. A grindstone belly Hammering a smaller shape Beneath a snake Of in-betweening light. "I feel like this. I hope that you do, too, Black crater. Screw you. Kiss" And sees a voodoo flicker, where two worlds nearly touch And miss. That flash, where white Lets black get close, that dagger of not-quite contact, Catspaw panic, quiver on the wheat Field before thunder - There. That's it. That's her own self, in paint, Splitting what she was from what she is. As if everything that separates, unites.