The Plan Stays Folded

[Verse 1]
I keep a floor plan folded in the cookbook drawer,
with the sink drawn where the good chair goes.
You laugh at my measurements; I love you for that.
I order dumplings for two, eat six by the door.
The little paper boxes make a fine temporary wall.

[Pre-Chorus]
I know the trick: new curtains, new shoes,
a flirt with a stranger who says my name like a room.
For an hour, every hinge swings easy.
Then I come home and know which board complains.

[Chorus]
I want to leave this room exactly as it is,
with your mug on the sill, my coat on your chair.
I want a key to a life I didn’t pick,
and I want you to keep the spare.
I’m grateful; I’m bored; I’m kissing your forehead.
I’m pricing a place where nobody knows my face.

[Verse 2]
I buy a lamp shaped like a very earnest mushroom,
then send you half the bill for groceries—fair is fair.
I’m generous when I’m scared you’ll notice
how much I like the cashier’s joke, the new menu,
the sweet clean pause before the card goes through.

[Bridge]
Maybe the room isn’t small; maybe I keep moving
its walls with one hand, while the other sets the table.
I can picture leaving. I can picture staying.
Both pictures have your shoes by the door.

[Outro]
The plan stays folded. The dumplings get cold.
You ask if I’m happy. I say, “I’m here.”