They haven’t solved your death. I think about you and your last breath.
The coroner doesn’t return my calls. No one speaks of your blood splattered on your paintings and walls.
Your dog is happy and with a friend. I have not forgotten you asked me to take her, just in case— on me you could depend.
I should have taken her. That time was a blur. I was pregnant, and shocked and felt the stir.
Your ex-wife wrote about your love. It was all you wanted to hear, from earth and above.
I will write about you again. I will read, I will call, pray and pen.
Goodnight, rock star,
Hour 4, Prompt 4