She was the gypsy with the golden hair: Marquéz paperback in her loose grip, furrowed eyebrows causing creases in her forehead as she doodled in the margins, sun kissed skin on a hot summer night in June sun. An enigmatic Gemini with a spirited tongue who smiled invitingly when she looked at me. If it was the right time of day, I'd see her perched on top of the front steps of my loft when she'd knew I'd be on the balcony with a blunt in hand like clockwork. I swear it was as if she knew I'd draw her so she sat still, albeit my hands being nimble enough to draw her from memory alone. Though time was never my greatest confidant, as it'd get dark quick and I was soon left with the harsh winds that came at the end of a cool, summer evening, a finished bud, and the vacant loft front steps.
