A little needle, brass and glass
Pointing somewhere, pointing past
You bought it at the harbor store
A toy compass, nothing more
You laughed and spun it on my palm
"Now you'll always find your calm"
True north's supposed to hold its ground
Mine kept turning — to your sound
My compass doesn't point at north
It points at you, for all it's worth
Whatever coast I wander through
The needle trembles back to you
I've carried it through other towns
Through other summers, other sounds
It never once has told me lies
It just ignores the map — and tries
True north's supposed to hold its ground
Mine kept turning — to your sound
My compass doesn't point at north
It swings the way you sailed forth
They'd call it broken at the store
I call it honest, nothing more
Maybe home is not a place
Maybe it's a pointing grace
My compass doesn't point at north
It points at you, for all it's worth
And on the nights I lose my way
I let it point, and I'm okay
A little needle, brass and true
Still leaning gently after you
