[Verse 1] Our houseboat has a brass key nailed over the sink— for a door we don’t own, a joke you keep polishing. You fold my laundry; I know which mug is yours. I buy a lemon tart at noon and eat it over the drawer. The first bite says, “You’re here.” The last says, “Again?” I love this little harbor. I keep checking the tide chart. [Pre-Chorus] A suitcase under the bed, packed with socks, not plans. I’m generous with the tip, then hide the receipt in my hand. [Chorus] I want to stay where your coat takes up the chair; I want the name I’d have if no one knew me here. I’m happy in this kitchen, bored enough to roam— I kiss you at the doorway, then imagine another home. The boat is warm; the map is cheap and new. I don’t know which one I’m betraying when I want both to be true. [Verse 2] A parcel arrives: a brass compass that points at the shop. I laugh, then use it to find the wine we forgot. A stranger says my name like it belongs to a different man; for ten minutes, I’m all appetite and no calendar. Then I come back with peaches, your favorite kind, and tell you the whole story, except the part I liked. [Breakdown] The boat rocks gently when the washing machine spins. You sleep with one foot outside the blanket. I could leave. I could stay. Neither thought has learned to shut up. [Final Chorus] I want to stay where your coat takes up the chair; I want the life that never had to learn my name. The tart is gone. The compass still points nowhere. You ask if I’m all right—I say, “Mostly,” and mean it. I don’t know which one I’m betraying when I want both to be true.
