How is it I'm a big mess of words,
and I break the ones I never meant to.

Sometimes I smear the ink and sometimes I misspell the words,
but I never meant to break them.

My body's tense and if you move too quickly,
if you touch too suddenly,
I swear I'll run.

I'll run I'll run I'll run just like Honey
my dearest baby fawn ran, I'll run I say, I'll run.

Headlights will fade and I will wake up and I will run
til my feet touch Alabania. I'll run with a tin drum and a tamborine,
strap my fiddle to my back and black my fingertips with ink
so I can write the stories with my fingers on the strings
of my violin. Big messy words, and little ones that sing so sweet.

I'll run til I find a tent, around the hills and through the mountains
and past the wilderness and all the way to a tent, where we'll sit and drink
chai. Play with each other's hands and say that we know one another.

My ink will stain your fingers and the story will be close, will be close, will be close
and frighteningly intimate.
My desert gypsies will love me home, and we'll drink chai in your tent near the manna.