Too small are the pieces
I’ve asked a thousand ways
the forgotten language
has finally come into focus
this girl who wishes
turns out to be
a Gypsy.
The dialect between us
is something
all together
different.
I swear this to be
I can feel her
just a few hours
removed.
Her perfume lingers
wisps on fingertips
I can still taste
that scent she brings
up and buried underneath
I promised
I’d write to her,
just her,
this time
she’s not alone.
As soon as I post this
she’ll ring on the phone
asking if I missed this,
missed her,
heavy voice
now that she knows
I fell in love
with a Gypsy.
Dragonflypoetry.com 