The gypsy

Words oscillate in the empty spaces between us
Some float like clouds, waiting to pour;
But you’re stitched up all over
From one ear to the other.
Would it matter if some of these clouds
Broke into rain?
Would you pick the message
As they beat down on your lips?

You are here, yet your soul
Has flown away,
It was gone years and miles ago
When you went searching for a place with footprints
You could fill with your own.
At every crossroad you stood,
They remarked in hushed tones
“She must be from another town,
Ms. ?
Hey, what do they call her?”
But down in the lanes that mingle behind your home
They still remember your first name.

So, where do you belong
When your shoes have the sands of different places?

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