Gypsy Woman

I met her on a snowy day in Harlem.

She was walking in the store I was walking out of.

She had a son. A toddler.

I knew it was her.

My 6th sense peaked at the sight of her.

We exchanged information, but we knew what this was all about.

She was a gypsy.

Restricted by the ignorance of our fellow Harlem native male.

We must do better, my brothers.

I digress. 

We stayed in communication, and finally she invited me to her dwelling.

We shared knowledge. 

We shared libation.

And in the heat of getting to know each other,

we made love.

Deep, passionate, unforgettable, un-regrettable sex.

We fought the calling of love.

She didn’t feel pretty enough.

I didn’t feel city enough.

But we stayed in touch.

I shared with her the magic of my music.

On a literal, technical front.

Through grace, she showed me something.

Something I shall never forget.

Something I dare not show my peers and those younger than me, both in age and in spirit.

Her inspiration guided me through a new dark 24-hour period.

I wanted the darkness to continue, her light was so bright.

I thank my Gypsy woman.

I only hope to enhance and enhance with what she showed me.

If you’re lucky, I’ll show you in person.

But it must be in person.

And you must thank my Gypsy woman.

I thank my Gypsy woman.

I’ll just never let her know how much I thank her.

I’ll let the sex tell the story 

if we ever do it again.