No one wants to say goodbye

In this land of gypsies every raised eyebrow is a kiss. every woven tale is a lifetime. memories last as long as wagon tracks in the desert where lonely coyotes bay at the moon. these gypsy spirits had day jobs one, networks, favorite bars, and sewing circles You can see it in their eyes. the scorpion evolved his armor over a million years but these souls are protected by little more than denim and borrowed skin.
what is a gypsy spirit to do in the face of such loneliness? The desert forgives no weakness. It swallows hearts alive.
between hello and goodbye is a lifetime of laughter and tears. a gypsy learns to carry his shield high and build her armor thick. the young keep their distance or hide in a cloud of smoke. the old can tell the story of their lives in two minutes. I was a cabinetmaker. I was a teacher. I was poor. I killed a man.
they don't even lie anymore.
so if you should pass a gypsy on the street don't say hello. bury our fingers in her hair. kiss him full on the lips and then run away. don't turn around. don't say goodbye.

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