There's not many places I belong,
but I don't think one of them involves you.
You, you strange creature
I'm scared to call a home.
Because I'm not sure I'm wanted there.
Your mind is a dwelling
I'm never sure I can ring the doorbell to.
Could I ask to come in?
Maybe look around
and notice all the interesting
knickknacks that fill your
living room?
I'm not sure.
And I don't ask because what if you say no,
but what if you say yes?
Will I like what I find inside?
My own home's door is always open,
the windows cracked enough for a breeze.
I'm Gatsby
hoping Daisy will come check out the show.
There's not many places I belong,
and I'm scared none of them are with you.