I gazed into your eyes,
Staring at me from across the continent.
They had the look of sun soaked pleasure,
Which only intended to visit,
As you unpacked your bags,
For a permanent stay.
I thought the West contained,
Millions of magical gypsies,
Who cursed you with perpetual bliss.
But the rainy season soon started,
Washing away the joy filled granules,
That the gypsies implanted, within your skin.
The front porch became your constant companion,
As you sat and gazed westward,
Down the highway, which brought you back home.
The ice in your glass turned to tepid water,
As you watched our neighbors pack their belongings,
Into brown boxes, which were headed towards your gypsy land.
With a fanfare of dust,
The boxes were engulfed within the western horizon
As you paced, contemplating whether to follow.
I found you in the truck that night,
After work sitting, staring,
Your legs still pacing.