Sinti Gypsy, you went out like a flame beneath a bell jar; Straight to your grave from your vanity fair. Darling, we should have come up for air. I remember holding back your hair while you purged up all your venom. Even displaced and disheveled, you were still miraculous to me.
Six winters I watched you fall apart. Six summers I followed after. I sent you fragments of myself in every self-pitying letter. Every envelope came back to me unopened and unknown. I can’t help but wonder if you’re dead or getting better.
Sinti Gypsy, your reflection is all my fading eyes can see. My heart beats faster and my knees are getting weak. You know I’m reaching the end of myself when traces of you are all that’s left of me.
I watched in silent horror as he dragged you from the crowd, As you suffered his fury, his violence, his storm. We all looked on, but with lungs constricted, and never made a sound. Sinti Gypsy, who came to your rescue? Who pulled you from his violent arms? Who swore they would protect you until all the stars fell down? They say I don’t know you’re dead to me, because intent never makes a sound.
Sinti Gypsy, your reflection is all my fading eyes can see. My heart beats faster and my knees are getting weak. You know I’m reaching the end of myself when traces of you are all that’s left of me.
You’ve been a vapor for so long, that I’m just keeping my heavy eyes open to remember what you looked like. Sinti Gypsy, your obituary is the story of my life.
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