tu me manques,” Madeline Bruessow

tu me manques

Madeline Bruessow

i don’t know when i fell in love. or how. but it happened. slowly, so slowly that i didn’t notice it until i was dreaming in debussy. the perfume of your breath in the morning, a hazy mist hanging over a dew-dropped lavender field. i don’t know if it was the cozy parisian terraces, overlooking the champs-élysées, la tour eiffel. i don’t know if it was the dreamy sensation of a croissant and café crème upon my tongue, from a little boulangerie along the riviera. i don’t know if it was the way that the mere thought of you made me feel like one of the ladies from monet’s paintbrush: faceless, elegantly parasoled, dappled with sunlight in a jardin of flowers. i’ve never met you. never felt the cool rush of alpine air caressing my breast. never stumbled, halfdrunken, along rue de la huchette in those hours that are both late and early at the same time, clinging dizzily to your arm, mon amour. nevertheless, you are my sacrécœur. tu me manques. you are missing from me.