It's moving day again; there's a neighbor down the street,
He's old and decrepit, searching for greener pastures.
Also known as, the nursing home.

Moving day once more, there's a young woman moving in to the apartment next to mine.
She's got steady black hair and I wonder how her 'Feng Shui' attitude will affect my 'chi'.
I'm in love with this woman and I don't know it yet.
Her empty apartment breaks my heart, no furniture and no food, but luckily
She has a job.

Two weeks later and she still doesn't have anything in her mini fridge besides stolen booze.
I wonder if this lifestyle, the city folk style, is right for this freelance writer.
I just want to make her smile.

Two days later I came to her doorstep with a bouquet of freshly picked assorted flowers.
Her eyes were baggy and sore, almost bloodshot. She went to rub them with her clenched fist,
But my hand drew hers away. She stopped to look at me in the right way,
If there was a right way for her to look, and she invited me in.

I bought her food and she slept on my couch when the going went tough.
Her hardwood floor was doing nothing for her back.
Somehow she afforded the laptop she carried, but I knew
She was a klepto.

Occasionally she'd step into her empty apartment and sigh.
There was something she really missed about being in the country.
Back home with real green pastures, with her real parents,
Not duplexes and looming towers to call home.
She cried on my shoulder often, and I ran my fingers through her woven plaited hair.

The next day I found myself wondering where the time went.
Moving day was upon me again, this time my little writer was gone.
There wasn't a note saying where she'd gone or if she missed me.
But I knew deep down she was still a kleptomaniac.
She had stolen my heart.