Smoke lingers
In the thickness of the air
And she finds herself
Exhaling
More than she took in.

It’s complicated.
To love a gypsy,
Like a Roman graveyard prostitute.
To crave her body
Mind, and essence.

The desire
To savagely change her.

Because she
Will never
Stay with you.
(Or anyone.)



The wind has ceased.
As if the whole earth
Holds her breath,
Waiting for acquiescence
That will never grace her face.

And she is statuesque.
Not in artistic infamy,
But because she’s made of stone.
(The sort that will stand
The test of time,
And all those who would try
To break her)



(That is to say…. you.)


So cast your foolish notions
At the bottom of her pedestal,
And leave them there.


Your unrequited love
Will worship at her feet.




It is, after all, the smallest sacrifice
One could make
To such an exquisite creation.




An excruciating compromise,
I know.

I loved her
From the moment I created her...
And even I have never held her
To this day.