Hooked

Like an incomplete painting
She has got a piece missing
And like the incompetent amateur
I fail to see what it is

Is her nose a little wayward?

Her pose, awkward?
Is it the clothes she wears?
Or the way she stares?

I miss the eye
The key to see
The flaw may be in her
Or maybe, it is in me.

I try to ignore her
And sometimes, to out-stare
She wins, she draws, she pulls
Always and eternally, my incomplete muse.