Inventing Doors

[Intro]
There’s a little door behind the pantry shelf
I swear it wasn’t there last spring

[Verse 1]
I love this house: your shoes by the radiator,
the kid’s blue cup with a bite mark in the rim.
Still, I keep a suitcase folded in my thinking,
like a guest who never quite checks in.
I order noodles for the salt and the soft landing,
buy a coat that makes a stranger of my name.
The boxes stack like rooms I almost rented;
I thank the life I have, then price the train.

[Chorus]
I built a house that keeps inventing doors;
one opens out, one opens back to you.
I want the key, I want the kitchen table,
your laugh in the next room, and a room with no one in it too.
I’m not unhappy—I’m just hungry in a way
that dessert can hush, but never tell the truth.

[Verse 2]
A new flirt says my name like it’s unclaimed land.
For an hour, even my old jokes sound new.
Then I come home with peaches, cheap champagne,
and tell you both the truth and half of it, too.
I’m generous: I save you the last dumpling.
I’m selfish: I resent the plate I saved.
The hallway’s got a draft from somewhere future;
I patch it up, then stand there feeling brave.

[Bridge]
Maybe freedom’s just a room I haven’t cleaned.
Maybe staying is a choice I make again.
I love you. I want to leave the map uncolored.
I turn the knob. I hear you laugh. I don’t know when.

[Final Chorus]
I built a house that keeps inventing doors;
one opens out, one opens back to you.
I want the key, I want the kitchen table,
your laugh in the next room, and a room with no one in it too.