When I first met him, he was a wanderer, gypsy
his eyes thirsty
and his body fire—
When I first saw her, she was a wonder, water
to put out fire.
The fountain between my legs dripped, gushy
from the same spot of a leaking roof.
Fire burnt from the pit of my stomach, hot coals
and I knew I had a home.
You will never wander anymore, Gypsy, I told him.
Between her legs, she was patchouli: earthy and musky smell,
sweet yet smoky, a balance of sweetness and romance—
and for the rest of the night, I tasted her tanginess.
Keep it that way, I told him and put out the fire.
