There are daises laced
in the holes in all my jeans.
And there are weeds between
my finger tips,
like I forgot them there again.

My hair is messy like always,
and I am painting with colors
on my skin.

I wonder how, like always,
how he can find ease in such a mess.
How could he find something so stable
in the emotions of a gypsy girl?

I tied a string 'round my wrist,
it was red and small, and had no charms.
I did this to remember the way,
he told me I was everything,
even when I was nothing.

He seemed strong, like safety,
but we all knew the weaknesses.
He was brave, it was in his eyes,
and he held my hand, and he called
my lies.

He filled me with a feeling,
a calling, or a comfort.
He made a girl who left a lot,
feel like she was at home.