Reworked beginning of "The Abandoned" which is no longer "The Abandoned"
If she could talk she'd tell him the right shade,
gold to accent the red tweed folding against her limp hands
or "Terra-Cotta", a cap to the foundation of her blue eyes.
Instead, her neck, like a glorious Greek pillar
crumbles, and her husband chooses his own hue.
His hand sweeps her cheek. Together, they move on.
Tomorrow he will paint her sweet with all his words,
force the flush back to her sallow face. Who is he kidding?
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