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That corner of the house
That always felt mine
That painting, that chair
That table to dine

That fridge, it hath held so much treasure
A love so real, a love without measure
Those colors, on the walls, muted yet nice
That special bookshelf that could never suffice

That cupboard, it held so much in store
That Television, my true love, my core
That sofa, it’s curves so well contoured now
It knows me too well, it loves me, and how

And yet I’m so sick of it, sick of it all
Come next sunrise, come next nightfall
It all feels constricting, it feels like such pain
I wish I could go out, so that I could come back again…