Not now, she knows.
Someday, maybe.
Hopefully.
Just ask.
The gypsy
Would know what to say
In a heartbeat.
But whispering into painted bottles,
Constantly chasing the ghost of a good thing,
And leaving tin cans in the sea
Won't keep a kite from flying,
And could breathe the life
Out of a wandering soul.
But bask in the moon's presence
With the gypsy's hand in yours,
Paint a photograph neither blurred by the wind
Nor marred by the rain,
And the gypsy will lay her cards
And offer you her bandana.
Even gypsies
Need to rest.
Even the kindest gypsies
Know when to dance their last.
This gypsy knows not
Where her feet would take her.
Even the smartest gypsies
Could lose track of things
That previously made sense,
Once they turn around-- mid-sway --
And see not the crowd
But this one face
That the faceless crowd surrounds.
This gypsy?
It's your face she saw.
It's your face she sees.
But there's no need
To worry.
For she honors
Your request
For silence.
...
This was written ages ago.
(2007 Copyright Cddyqa Rogel)
aw heartbreak? 
