details of my life
won't turn a stranger's head
neither would the 411
of who's sleeping in my bed
to them i am a picture
of what they see so plain
to them it doesn't matter
to whom i give my name
i am nothing to the man
that plants his crop and seed
i am nothing to the woman
who works tirelessly at her weave
i am nothing to the folk
that bake and craft galore
but to myself i am best friend,
lover and so much more