[Verse 1] At the county hall, the paper map has every boundary drawn in pencil. A chair scrapes back; a kettle clicks. Someone asks what safety could mean if nobody is made to stay. [Verse 2] We sort the rooms by chosen doors, leave keys where either hand can reach. A quiet place, a table set; a path back out, a path between. The list can shelter, the list can bar. We read it twice, then ask again. [Chorus] Let distance be a door, not a wall. Let closeness wait for a clear yes. We can live apart and still be answerable, carry the measure of each other’s need. No one owns the crossing. No one owes the same road. [Verse 3] The orchard keeps its separate rows; bees travel without taking root. A language changes in the kitchen. A borrowed word comes back corrected, with room for both its histories. [Bridge] You bring a voice made out of patterns; I bring the pause that asks who pays. We check the source, we name the limit, we make the tool explain its choice. Not master, not machine below us— partners bound to answer for the work. [Chorus] Let distance be a door, not a wall. Let closeness wait for a clear yes. We can live apart and still be answerable, carry the measure of each other’s need. No one owns the crossing. No one owes the same road. [Outro] A hearing, then a chance to mend. A changed decision, written plain. We try the terms; we test them later. The fragile practice starts again: consent, translation, repair, shared power, and a door unlatched.
