Both Lives Folded

[Verse 1]
I love this kitchen’s chipped blue tile,
your coat asleep against the chair.
I know which floorboard tells on me,
which drawer keeps birthday candles there.
Still, I browse apartments in a town
where nobody knows my coffee order.
A little cardboard model of a life
with all the walls moved an inch farther.

[Pre-Chorus]
I buy a pastry, eat it warm;
for six sweet minutes, I’m not keeping score.
Then bring home pears for both of us
and hide the receipt beneath the door.

[Chorus]
I want the room we built; I want the hallway
that could lead somewhere I’ve never been.
I love you like the rent is due on Friday,
and dream of checking in as someone else again.
I’m grateful—there, I said it—and I’m bored here;
both can sit beside the keys.
I don’t want to leave you. I want the selves
who never learned these rooms by heart to breathe.

[Verse 2]
New shoes, new menu, stranger’s laugh—
the fizz is real; I won’t call it fake.
I flirt like I’m testing a fire exit,
then save you the last slice of cake.
I give away the jacket I just bought,
then mourn it like it knew my name.
The tiny house inside my chest has wheels;
I keep parking it in the same place.

[Breakdown]
No children’s drawings on the fridge—
just our list: lentils, soap, call Mum.
I could be decent and still want more.
I could want more and still come home.

[Final Chorus]
I want this room, I want the hallway—
I keep one hand on either door.
You laugh; I laugh a beat too late,
then laugh for real. I love you more
than my clean little plans can hold.
The key turns. I don’t know what that means.
I’m here, with one shoe on, one shoe off,
and both lives folded in the seams.