The Compass Points Nowhere

[Verse 1]
Our houseboat has a brass key nailed over the sink—
for a door we don’t own, a joke you keep polishing.
You fold my laundry; I know which mug is yours.
I buy a lemon tart at noon and eat it over the drawer.
The first bite says, “You’re here.” The last says, “Again?”
I love this little harbor. I keep checking the tide chart.

[Pre-Chorus]
A suitcase under the bed, packed with socks, not plans.
I’m generous with the tip, then hide the receipt in my hand.

[Chorus]
I want to stay where your coat takes up the chair;
I want the name I’d have if no one knew me here.
I’m happy in this kitchen, bored enough to roam—
I kiss you at the doorway, then imagine another home.
The boat is warm; the map is cheap and new.
I don’t know which one I’m betraying when I want both to be true.

[Verse 2]
A parcel arrives: a brass compass that points at the shop.
I laugh, then use it to find the wine we forgot.
A stranger says my name like it belongs to a different man;
for ten minutes, I’m all appetite and no calendar.
Then I come back with peaches, your favorite kind,
and tell you the whole story, except the part I liked.

[Breakdown]
The boat rocks gently when the washing machine spins.
You sleep with one foot outside the blanket.
I could leave. I could stay.
Neither thought has learned to shut up.

[Final Chorus]
I want to stay where your coat takes up the chair;
I want the life that never had to learn my name.
The tart is gone. The compass still points nowhere.
You ask if I’m all right—I say, “Mostly,” and mean it.
I don’t know which one I’m betraying
when I want both to be true.