There is always something remarkable, about falling in love with a vagabond.
They way they come into your life to steal your heart.
Almost like it always belonged to them.
And you think you can fix them, love them.
How foolish.
I like to think they keep a little piece of their lovers as they drift through life.
They keep it in a little box hidden in their room.
Somewhere, obvious.
But not easily seen.
And they pull that little box out from time to time to look at those former lovers.
Not because they miss you.
But because they miss feeling whole.
And they hope one day.
They can take all those broken pieces, and make something beautiful.

I wish I could make something beautiful.