Abigail and Arthur

January 24, 2009
By Marisa Swanson BRONZE, Grand Prairie, Texas
Marisa Swanson BRONZE, Grand Prairie, Texas
3 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Abigail and Arthur, sitting in a bar
Between them, a few inches?
Their distance wasn’t far
Said Abigail to Arthur, “The grass just ain’t so green.”
He took a swig of alcohol
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

She scribbled down her number
Then walked out of the door
Just left him with his bottle
Now he craved so much more

Abigail and Arthur, kneeling in a church
Her stomach, kneading knots and twists
But she stayed on her perch
“I now pronounce you Man and Wife,” said Pastor Franklin John
Their kiss was brief and innocent
And a new life came on

She didn’t think she was prepared
For what was to begin
“I love you,” were his whispered words
She felt his lie within

Abigail and Arthur, standing in a house
His face was red with shamefulness
A tear fell on her blouse
“I trusted you,” said Abigail, trying not to cry.
He turned away, full of regret
He knew this was goodbye

The grass was coated in hard snow
Still, she walked out the door
Her shoe hit ice
She slipped and fell
And toppled to the floor

Abigail, not Arthur, was lying underground
The tall tombstone was silent
The air released no sound
Over her grave, where Arthur sobbed
The grass was soft and green
Freed from him only in her death
Her spirit was serene

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