Bronze, golden hair, a smile that makes your heart quiver,

she looked like she was painted by Claude Monet on a spring day.

As if the blue, gold, and brown oils had become human,

as if the paint had danced off the page and into my life.

She was a piece of art that I loved,

that I loved as much as life itself.

Her smile, her love, her blue eyes.

We were in each other lives,

picnics on the weekends, homework on the weekdays,

smiles, soft piano music, flowers.

Holding a bouquet of flowers she smiled at me,

her bronze hair glowed in the sunlight.

She put a flower in my hair,

“you look beautiful,”

she said to me.

I looked up into her eyes and for the first time in a while,

I had smiled.

She was too rare and too beautiful for anyone to understand,

but I understood.

She was a piece of art that I could not afford.

I was no piece of art,

I was not too rare or too beautiful.

But when she was with me I felt like a piece of art,

painted by Claude Monet on a spring day.