I was born for the distant shore.
Girl next door? Thatâ€™s not me. I may look tame, but my soul belongs to the wicked wind. Do not judge me by youth or the smoothness of my skin.
You say that I donâ€™t know what I want, that I am still a childâ€”that my eager fingers grab at anything that speaks of adventure and challenge.
I know that you say this because your heart cannot believe what your ears have heard.
Iâ€™m exiting our love affair, and Iâ€™m breaking up the love nest you have so generously feathered for my comfort.
I was never going to stay, and I was honest about that from the start.
You were willing to take the riskâ€”you said that you were not the type of man who needed love served for every meal. You had said it with that odd little smile you wear when youâ€™re barely convincing to yourself.
We promised to play until the time came for me to travel on. You took my unfettered kisses, you coveted my naĂŻve outlook on life. I used to love the way you called me “little girl” when I whispered my dreams to you in the dark of night.
I suppose you thought I didnâ€™t have the courage to leave the strength of your arms, the skill of your tongue or the way you bit along my inner thigh.
I was all woman when you led me down your sex-soaked path. I was all woman with my hair fisted in your hand. So why do you accuse me of immaturity now that I stand resolutely with my suitcase by the door?
I am a gypsy, through and through.
I am a wandererâ€”a traveler of the moon and stars.
The tides are my companions, mermaids are my kin, and sparrows are my guides on the ocean of my journey inward bound.
I cannot be owned.
I will always seek what lies beyond the next bend in the road.
Please understand that my heart answers to another loverâ€™s call. My true love is discovery. Discovery is my sinâ€”my sin of needing the unknown. The unknown calls me with silvery whispers that only a true gypsy can hear.
Like the mesmerizing tinkling the fairie-folkâ€™s bellâ€”the unknown takes me deep into the mystical world, reserved for those who walk through the mists of time. My feet keep moving, movingâ€”to places that you cannot follow.
Why can you not follow me, my love? Iâ€™ll tell youâ€”because although you try to understand, you cannot grasp the true heart of a wandering soul.
A gypsy soul has always been a gypsy soul. Through every century, every lifetimeâ€”we have been restless and eager for the road.
A gypsy soul will always only serve the wind. Even at our most perfectly content, we are only a moment away from being wakened by the wicked minstrel that stirs our hair and lifts the scent of travel to our nose.
A gypsy soul must travel alone. Not away from anything or anyone, but toward their deepest knowing of themselves. And because we are always shiftingâ€”always becoming new with each destinationâ€”we will never fully know ourselves, and therefore, the journey will always continue.
A gypsy soul deeply loves anyone who touches her unfathomable self, but not as deeply as she loves to understand the mysteries of life. Something, somewhereâ€”that she must learnâ€”will always trump the lover who vows to be her last.
A gypsy soul must have an open sky to commune with the heavens. The stars understand what a gypsy cannot utter with wordsâ€”that life is lived best, shining bright with purpose, on a path that never burns out of promise.
So, if you insist on loving me, my darlingâ€”you must learn to let me go.
Bury your face in my windblown hair, kiss the wanderlust on my lips and make love to me like you did when we were new, and you were spellbound by my unconventional ways.
Pull me against the hardness of your chest, and leave me breathless one last time. F*ck me howling at the moon, sing me a ballad, feed me your most decadent fantasy. I will gladly bow to your will this one last time.
I am not the young girl you met while sipping coffee in the square.
I am ancientâ€”I am your lifeâ€™s muse.
Keep me tucked inside the river of your memories. Let me inspire your poetryâ€”live on a canvas etched with oils.
Let me inspire the dreams you said you no longer have.
Wanderers, dreamers, gypsiesâ€”we flavor the world.
Author: Monika Carless
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina
Photo: Wiki Commons