From one Artist to Another

My Love, 

I miss you. I know you tell you this thousands of times, but you don't understand just how much I miss you. Hopefully, you'll come home soon 
You ask me to come back with you to America, but I cannot. You above anything or anyone are my one true home. But when we spent that summer in New York, you were not my home. You were different. The kindness in your eyes and the warmth in your heart was not the same as it is when you are in Mexico, with me. 
Maybe it's the people there. I know those artists, as the call themselves, have a tendency to to pull and take. They change you. You are not the same man I met many years ago when you are with them. In Mexico I met a stubborn man who had great passion for creating art that satisfied him, and him only. Now all I see is a man who works for Money instead of working parque su alma lo demanda. It used to be about the hard work and the pride, now it's for these silly pieces of paper and people who care nothing about who we are and where we come from.
Come home, regresa a tú tierra. Feel the dirt under your feet and the sun on your back. We can argue and yell with each other all you want. But we'll paint all the madness created from our chaotic love. Come be my home again, even if you don't need me as much as I need you. For at least the little bit of you that you do need, is a bit that brings out some of the best in you. That neither you or I could ever deny. 

Forever Yours , 
F.K.R