The Unlicensed Room

[Verse 1]
Our house has a small, unlicensed room
between the pantry and the stairs.
I keep my other lives in there:
one eats peaches over the sink,
one buys a green coat in July,
one kisses strangers like a dare.
I come back with the receipt folded
small enough to pass for a prayer.
You’re laughing at the table. I love you.
I’m already measuring elsewhere.

[Pre-Chorus]
I know the floorboards by their complaints,
which step will wake the upstairs cat.
Still, I want a door that opens
onto a person I could’ve been.

[Chorus]
I love this house; I want to leave it.
I want the key and the unlocked door.
You make me glad I came home,
then home feels like a coat I wore
so long I’ve forgotten my own shape.
I’m grateful—and I want one more
life, just to see what it costs me.
I don’t know what I’m asking for.

[Verse 2]
The peach was perfect, juice on my wrist;
the coat looks better on the chair.
A little thrill, a little invoice,
a new name in a borrowed stairwell.
I’m generous with the last good slice,
then resent the plate I chose to share.
My heart’s not wicked. It’s just restless,
like a tenant moving furniture.

[Breakdown]
I could stay. I could go.
I could call this wanting “more.”
You asleep, one sock missing;
my hand resting on the door.

[Final Chorus]
I love this house; I want to leave it.
I want the key and the unlocked door.
You make me glad I came home—
I’m still outside, imagining more.
The little room keeps gaining inches.
I still don’t know what it’s for.