The Closet Door Won't Quite

[Verse 1]
Our house has a wardrobe built into the wall,
full of coats for the people I didn’t become.
I wear one to buy a hot peach pie,
come home with the box and a receipt for the coat.
You laugh at the flour on my sleeve.
I love you so much I could almost stay still.

[Pre-Chorus]
Then I scroll through apartments in cities
where nobody knows I load the dishwasher wrong.
A blue jacket arrives in a paper coffin.
For ten minutes, I’m somebody with plans.

[Chorus]
I’m lucky, I know; I’m restless, too.
I kiss you goodbye, then envy the train.
There’s room in the closet for one more life,
but I can’t wear them all without smelling like you.
I want to leave, and I want you to ask me to stay.
I want both answers. I hate that I do.

[Verse 2]
At dinner I’m generous, pass you the crispest piece,
then take the last dumpling when you look away.
A stranger says my name like it’s a new one;
I carry that syllable home, folded small.
The coats keep their sleeves buttoned together.
I keep pretending that counts as a sign.

[Bridge]
Maybe desire is just a fitting room
with flattering mirrors—no, not mirrors:
a clerk who says, “This one’s very you,”
while I’m still wearing your scarf.

[Chorus]
I’m lucky, I know; I’m restless, too.
I kiss you goodbye, then envy the train.
I put one coat back. I leave one out.
The closet door won’t quite catch.