There’s another place I go to less
Its door is always open,
I just hardly go inside.
It has a couch and table with a couple decent books.

It’s heated by a fireplace that also gives it light,
And in the evening when it rains
It makes a blue and graceful music on the picture window there.

It seems like a lovely place,
And truthfully, it is.
But I stay away because you’re in there reading often,
And I don’t wish you to lose your place.

So I struggle with the door in that other place I mentioned.
And I pretend the book I read is good,
And that you’ve read it too.

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