My wife is a painter.

I loved her with all my heart, she was absolutely perfect. Beautiful, talented, smart, funny. And she was a painter with only one canvas.

With every stroke of her brush, blooms the next addition onto her canvas. Blossoms of purples and blues, yellows and browns, deep reds and more. Each brush, each stroke makes the piece more magnificent, creating the masterpiece she's worked on for nearly six years now.

After our marriage, she felt the need to pick up this hobby, and since then, painting was her favorite thing to do; it became her pass time, the one thing she enjoyed above all else. It worried me, but at least she was happy.

With every stroke, every addition onto her mess of a canvas changed it completely. Perfectly beautiful in her eyes, though debatable in too many other's.

The blooms of purplish blue, like a starless galaxy littered the surface, and the deep reds that poisoned them with additional force. Only once or twice was there ever any white, thank God. But regardless, each addition added a variety of colors, eager to adorn the surface of the canvas.

After a while, her canvas was slowly erased, and that's when her hobby got obsessive. She had to do it everyday, at any point that she had free time. That's when the the worse of the colors came, the disgusting yellows and dirty browns, the blacks and near whites. Some were puke green, and the canvas nearly broke under the weight of the paint.

The canvas was nearly never clear, and the constant colors and disturbing patterns that adorned it were worrying. She needed to stop.

Finally, she reached the end of her painting career; she had ripped a hole right through the canvas, completing her masterpiece forever.

After that, she left. The last things to adorn her painting were a few broken tears, and then she was off, free of the burden that had filled her soul. She left, taken away from my life forever.

My wife was a painter.

I died as her masterpiece.

:D