in a market dimly lit

I wrote a little song for you
with a melody I'd borrowed put to words that didn't rhyme
to repeat what you already knew
as the stones thrown at your window tapped in syncopation
you kept a distance out of fear you'd break
but what's good a single windchime, hanging quite all alone?
the music our collisions would make
is a sound that turns the road-that-leads-us-back-home
into Home.