[Verse 1] Our house has a wardrobe built into the wall, full of coats for the people I didn’t become. I wear one to buy a hot peach pie, come home with the box and a receipt for the coat. You laugh at the flour on my sleeve. I love you so much I could almost stay still. [Pre-Chorus] Then I scroll through apartments in cities where nobody knows I load the dishwasher wrong. A blue jacket arrives in a paper coffin. For ten minutes, I’m somebody with plans. [Chorus] I’m lucky, I know; I’m restless, too. I kiss you goodbye, then envy the train. There’s room in the closet for one more life, but I can’t wear them all without smelling like you. I want to leave, and I want you to ask me to stay. I want both answers. I hate that I do. [Verse 2] At dinner I’m generous, pass you the crispest piece, then take the last dumpling when you look away. A stranger says my name like it’s a new one; I carry that syllable home, folded small. The coats keep their sleeves buttoned together. I keep pretending that counts as a sign. [Bridge] Maybe desire is just a fitting room with flattering mirrors—no, not mirrors: a clerk who says, “This one’s very you,” while I’m still wearing your scarf. [Chorus] I’m lucky, I know; I’m restless, too. I kiss you goodbye, then envy the train. I put one coat back. I leave one out. The closet door won’t quite catch.
