The facsimile is a fake

count breaths
2…3…
watch their eyes
their lips
what they have to say
beyond words

a colored shirt and sweater vest
hair fresh from the golf course
beside him
off-white pearls and golden curls
every strand in perfect place
between them
a coldness
the stench of betrayal hovers

she laughs a hearty cry
manners hang like a mask
protecting something sacred

he leans into her
whispers in tones
although you can't hear
you can see what he says
her smile fades inward
a confidence shattered
he moves back and doesn't see
the brokenness in her eyes

the evening ends and crowd departs