You were a nomad in all things
and every time you'd roll your caravan to town
holding a backpack and beating your drum
you'd reach out your hand
which could grip like electricity
so we'd set out together
us gypsy lovers
like birds that chase each other on the wind
and we'd **** the world with our charm
intoxicate with our savoir-faire
until the seasons changed
and you realized that howling at the moon
was a one man job
you bit and you scratched until
wailing, I threw you back into the wild
where you could have it all
your solitude and
your precious moon.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
You were a nomad in all things
and every time you'd roll your caravan to town
holding a backpack and beating your drum
you'd reach out your hand
which could grip like electricity
so we'd set out together
us gypsy lovers
like birds that chase each other on the wind
and we'd **** the world with our charm
intoxicate with our savoir-faire
until the seasons changed
and you realized that howling at the moon
was a one man job
you bit and you scratched until
wailing, I threw you back into the wild
where you could have it all
your solitude and
your precious moon.
Ah, grief changes like seasons. The bitterness has arrived, n'est pas?
