I put her on a weighing scale

Berthe Morisot by Edouard Manet, 1872

reaching me in waves of familiarity, for 

my mind to pay homage, to the voices of

the pink lips and maroon, that move in

undecipherable languid curves,

accentuated by the rapidly blinking eyes,

the two orbs that I was looking for,

for so long, they kindle my heart with

a flame, and make me blind by their sheen,

I try to wave away her beams, that surround

me into an enclosure of rapture, of pain,

my hands tremble, my toes freeze by her sight,

as I know when she apprehends me curiously,


which I do as well, but only by coy glimpses

to determine on the weighing scale, difference

of who she was, and who she is today,

she laughs at me, she laughs with me, but

nothing could hide my gloom of understanding,

she is no more the one she was, neither am I

the one of the past, she nods, she smiles,

breaking me into pieces of a jigsaw puzzle,

“Goodbye”, she says, shaking my right hand

with her left, then right, leaving me in

search of those pieces to adjoin, and find

my picture again, without, but in her gaze