[Verse 1] I keep a little drawer of train tickets for places I was glad I didn’t go. Your mug has a chip shaped like Nevada; I kiss your forehead, then price a room in Rome. At lunch I order the custard tart because its wobble makes me laugh. I eat it slow, then feel briefly appointed to a life with no return address. [Pre-Chorus] I love this table, these shoes by the door, your terrible pun that I still save. Then a stranger’s coat in a shop window makes my name feel like a room I never gave. [Chorus] I want to keep the key and try every lock, to come home changed and still be known. I’m full of the life I chose with you, and hungry for the lives I left alone. I buy a bright blue coat; it fits like a dare. I wear it to bring you tea. I can be grateful down to the bone and still want somewhere else to be. [Verse 2] I send back the sweater, keep the receipt, then spend that money on a cooking class. The chef says “fold,” I make a small wreck; we eat it anyway, laughing through the glass. A flirt at the bar says my name like a doorbell. I like the sound. I hate that I do. I tell you the story before it can grow legs; you touch my wrist. I want both things true. [Bridge] Maybe freedom’s not a suitcase, maybe it’s the aisle I didn’t take— but I still read the menu twice, just to taste the almost-choice. [Outro] Your chipped mug, my blue coat, tomorrow’s ticket, folded small. I don’t know which life I’m keeping. I know I love you in them all.
