The Painting

His posture was usual, portrayal of his rugged, angular mass.
She studied his details carefully as the sun hit his partially tanned flesh even though they were etched in her mind inch by inch.
She had a justification– his handsomeness was too perfect so as to commit a mistake on the fabric. The details were inevitably drawn. Her brush strokes spoke of her aching desperateness. It was all her premature evaluation. Only his exterior was interpreted well.

He was someone else’s, already.


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