Someone else's clothes

Sipping coffee in the darkness I drink in the silence.
A world apart the gypsy peddles flowers to a sea of broken strangers.
Her bare feet on the cobblestone street beneath a jeweled, ankle length skirt.
Under the same blanket of stars I'm in someone else's shirt.

Wilting carnations in desperate need of water. A fading fire in desperate need of wood.
Heads turned and eyes closed, they both go unattended.
Would she steal my wallet if given the chance?
I've made it easy. I unlock all the doors at twilight.
Fighting not to lose my mind I think I hear a weeping child.
We both need the safety of our blankets.
I'd light a candle, but the glow would reveal these aren't my clothes.

The gift of tongues and an angel comes. He tells me the name of the child.
He asks why I wear clothes that aren't my own.
"I was told they were better than the ones given me."
"You've forgotten how to fly," and he takes me to the gypsy.

I see she's in the clothes that she was given.
Under the stars she peddles flowers to the sea of broken strangers.
My host is gone and I'm in clothes that fit.
Her eyes meet mine and wading through the crowd I stand before her naked feet.
I buy a carnation that needs no water, from a fire that needs no wood.
I take my shoes off and feel the cobblestones beneath my feet.
She smiles.
This is holy ground.