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.
YOU ARE READING
Aesthetic
KurzgeschichtenEvan is not sure if its the art or her that takes his breath away. Highest Rank: #135 in Poetry; #604 in Short Story