Gypsy Soul

I undressed your raggae spirit. Yeah, I did it before we fell asleep for a thousand years in this sacred grove of olive trees. Then we took a leisurely swim in your jade-colored river before hunting for that tie-dye shirt hanging from a branch somewhere. Afterwards, we sailed toward the horizon of your gypsy soul, guided by the brightest stars in our sky.

When we hit land, we traded that sailboat in for how we prefer to travel: A 1992 black Porsche 911. We raced over the ribbon of asphalt through the desert, blasting through mirages to the outpost town where, when we did leave our room, it was only to use the pool and eat, briefly. I mean, who gambles in Las Vegas when the jackpot has hazel eyes and lives between the sheets, except to eat and use the pool, breifly.

We came awake as light leaked into the sky, softly breathing on each other's face. And then we set off again, this time blasting through cloud mountains to Paris. We had dinner with Louie, bicycled around the city, and woke up in Rome. When we couldn't find your shirt in Rome, we figured we'd try Hong Kong, Istanbul and Jupiter, always guided by the brightest stars in our blended sky, always sailing by the full canvass of your gypsy soul.