All The Way In

You're here at the table.

You're here when the phone rings.

You're here in every photograph

we take at somebody's wedding.

And you have not been here

in about four years.

There's a version of you that shows up,

and I have been dating him.

And I could take a hard no.

I've taken hard things before —

But get all the way in

or get all the way gone.

This half-open door is doing damage

neither one of us can see.

I'm not asking you to love me.

I'm asking you to pick.

All the way in, baby.

Or all the way out.

'Cause a maybe eats a woman's calendar,

a maybe eats her thirties,

a maybe's got no funeral

so nobody brings a dish.

I have grieved a man who's sitting

three feet from me, eating dinner,

telling me about his day

like it's a normal thing to do.

I'd rather have the honest ending

than another decorated year —

So get all the way in

or get all the way gone.

Whatever you're protecting

by standing in the doorway —

it isn't me, and it isn't us,

and I think you know its name.

All the way in, baby.

Or all the way out.

Get all the way in

or get all the way gone.

And I'll say the part I've never said,

so you don't have to guess:

if you take one more month to think,

I'm choosing for the both of us,

and I'll choose it kindly,

and I will not choose it twice.

All the way in.

Or let me go home.