[Intro] Three rooms in a little house, three windows facing different ways. Morning comes to every one, but never quite the same. [Verse 1] In the front room I shake hands, say the things that people say. Keep the weather from my voice, smile and send them on their way. There’s a coat behind the door, there’s a mirror by the stairs. Every face I wear outside has always been there. [Pre-Chorus] But lately when I turn the key and leave the evening at the door, I hear two sets of footsteps follow me. There used to be three before. [Chorus] Three rooms in a little house, three names written on three doors. One for strangers passing by, one for those I’m living for. One is mine when no one’s there. All three faces belonged to me— so where has one of them gone tonight? [Verse 2] In the middle room the kettle sings, someone laughs across the hall. I know where the pictures hang, I know every mark upon the wall. Here I speak a softer way, here my hands know what to do. Nothing in this room is false. Nothing here is borrowed. [Pre-Chorus] Still, sometimes in the window glass my own reflection seems delayed. I know the mouth. I know the eyes. I don’t know what has changed. [Chorus] Three rooms in a little house, three names written on three doors. One for strangers passing by, one for those I’m living for. One is mine when no one’s there. All three faces belonged to me— so where has one of them gone tonight? [Bridge] At the back there is a little room where no one else has ever been. A chair, a book, a crooked lamp, a curtain breathing in the wind. I used to sit there after dark and hear the house become my own. But now the chair is facing me. I don’t remember turning it. [Verse 3] The carpet lifts along one edge, one drawer is open by the bed. A thread still clings beneath the chair, the lamp burns on for no one there. A photograph lies face-down now. I don’t remember turning it. The room has kept its every thing— except for who belonged in it. [Final Chorus] Three rooms in a little house, three names fading on the doors. One still greets the passing world, one still knows who calls it home. And one stays quiet at the back, where the clocks have lost their time. All three faces belonged to me. Even the one I cannot find. Three rooms in a little house. Two lights burning through the night. I will not call the others false because one room has lost its light. [Outro] Three rooms. Two lights. One chair turned toward the door. I still live here. I think.
