[Verse 1] Our house has a small, unlicensed room between the pantry and the stairs. I keep my other lives in there: one eats peaches over the sink, one buys a green coat in July, one kisses strangers like a dare. I come back with the receipt folded small enough to pass for a prayer. You’re laughing at the table. I love you. I’m already measuring elsewhere. [Pre-Chorus] I know the floorboards by their complaints, which step will wake the upstairs cat. Still, I want a door that opens onto a person I could’ve been. [Chorus] I love this house; I want to leave it. I want the key and the unlocked door. You make me glad I came home, then home feels like a coat I wore so long I’ve forgotten my own shape. I’m grateful—and I want one more life, just to see what it costs me. I don’t know what I’m asking for. [Verse 2] The peach was perfect, juice on my wrist; the coat looks better on the chair. A little thrill, a little invoice, a new name in a borrowed stairwell. I’m generous with the last good slice, then resent the plate I chose to share. My heart’s not wicked. It’s just restless, like a tenant moving furniture. [Breakdown] I could stay. I could go. I could call this wanting “more.” You asleep, one sock missing; my hand resting on the door. [Final Chorus] I love this house; I want to leave it. I want the key and the unlocked door. You make me glad I came home— I’m still outside, imagining more. The little room keeps gaining inches. I still don’t know what it’s for.
