[Verse 1] I keep a floor plan folded in the cookbook drawer, with the sink drawn where the good chair goes. You laugh at my measurements; I love you for that. I order dumplings for two, eat six by the door. The little paper boxes make a fine temporary wall. [Pre-Chorus] I know the trick: new curtains, new shoes, a flirt with a stranger who says my name like a room. For an hour, every hinge swings easy. Then I come home and know which board complains. [Chorus] I want to leave this room exactly as it is, with your mug on the sill, my coat on your chair. I want a key to a life I didn’t pick, and I want you to keep the spare. I’m grateful; I’m bored; I’m kissing your forehead. I’m pricing a place where nobody knows my face. [Verse 2] I buy a lamp shaped like a very earnest mushroom, then send you half the bill for groceries—fair is fair. I’m generous when I’m scared you’ll notice how much I like the cashier’s joke, the new menu, the sweet clean pause before the card goes through. [Bridge] Maybe the room isn’t small; maybe I keep moving its walls with one hand, while the other sets the table. I can picture leaving. I can picture staying. Both pictures have your shoes by the door. [Outro] The plan stays folded. The dumplings get cold. You ask if I’m happy. I say, “I’m here.”
