The gypsy and the prince — a love story.
By Irma Correa.
His soul would be purple, majestic purple.
He would be seen riding a dark black steed and holding a freshly sharpened sword into battle, an extension of his arm. He was a prince in another life; it’s in his eyes. The eyes which scream entitlement, demanding that the Universe should succumb to his feet, not vice versa.
He sees passed the small details because they are unnecessary; there’s a fight to be won, an objective. It’s in the way he eats, no real enjoyment of the taste underneath his tongue. In the way he makes love, and stares down in awe at complete loss of self through the act in someone he believed his equal.
His love was cold, even when it was warm.
I saw a couple once sleep in this way: They both lay there; just laying there, no warmth, just cold running through the middle of the bed. It was a strange experience; it was like seeing something you shouldn’t have seen, but being drawn to it anyway. I can still smell the cold crisp air which escaped into the room from the AC socket I had removed to keep the chill out.
He wanted to give me warmth, when he still believed in fairy tales, but I am a spiritual entity. I don’t believe in fairy tales, only mysteries and our ability to draw. Drawing is a process; it requires acceptance of the subject which lies before you. No judgment, no hissing noises, no clicks of the tongue or awkward faces to interrupt the what is.
He saw I was different, he liked different, it’s a superficial world, I understood.
My soul is the color of sand, all the colors running through it at once. The wind easily infiltrates, I was a gypsy in another life, and beads hung by my neck, feathers ran though my hair. I ate as though I’ve been starved, delving into every bite.
I have sex the same way, I enjoy it too much. I could see it was odd for him as he stared when I tried to hold back my screams. I could feel it when he drew back, when he would turn around, when he would clean himself off. There were moments of sweet embrace when he felt complete, but the moments grew in space. Our true nature always escapes us.
I miss him. I miss the look of amazement. I miss the desire in his eye to just want to be near me. I miss the naive way he used to gaze at me.
But I am a gypsy. I’m not a princess; I’d be as happy with a dirt path as a concrete one so as long as I could feel the breeze run through my hair by day and feel his touch before nightfall.
He believes sin lies in enjoyment; I believe God lies in its acceptance.
I am a spirit in a human experience. It is evident when I swear if I experience anger, when I want to cry out at the most unexpected offenses, when I randomly burst out and sing. When I question my empathy after perceiving others’ disdain. At times, I become paranoid and maltreat those closest to me.
As a true gypsy though, I fight the history which runs through my veins moment by moment. I remember that I made it, that even when I was killed I lived, that even when I fell I stood, that even when there was hate there was love — like Jesus.
In Love, I travel back to my true form. There was nothing and yet everything. I let myself get lost in it. I love.
Forgiveness can’t exist through love.
He is purple, majestic purple, I the texture of the sand. He walked by me a thousand times through Life, and found me in this moment.
I the Gypsy. He the Prince.
Irma Correa is a Nowist…she continually fights the needs and desires which have been implanted in her by society, and only accepts titles and ranks to comfort those around her. She is the “mother” to an Indian wild spirit trapped in a seven-year old body and is the head of an ancient Taino tribe stranded in one of the “disadvantaged” jungles of Boston, MA. By day she fights the machine at her desk job; by night she interprets reality. Check out her work randomly updated on Awoken City.