Paloma called in sick today,
but we all know she just got drunk again.
During my break,
I sat at the bench
across the paintings of Renoir.
It has been a week
since I have seen her.
Like a drug addiction,
I couldn't keep her away.
I needed to see her
but I knew she was one out of a million.
She was like the lottery:
the type everyone wants to take home
but the odds were impossible.
I looked up after
biting my shitty sandwich
and there she was.
By The Seashore,
literally.
As she stood side-to-side,
by Renoir's wife,
I could not help and notice
they have the same color of eyes.
There she goes again,
sending me a smile
that made sadness
stay away.
But today, however,
I fought back,
and shot her a grin
that hadn't appeared
in any of my time here.
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Aesthetic
ContoEvan is not sure if its the art or her that takes his breath away. Highest Rank: #135 in Poetry; #604 in Short Story