I dreamed about you again last night. You never have the same face

twice, but I always know it's you, and you're always looking better than

you really do. Than you really do. And I walk around the whole next day

feeling like I've still got something to say. But I don't know what it

is, and I don't know how to reach you even if I did. Even if I did. Do

I wanna hear that you forgive me? Do I wanna hear you're no good without

me? Am I big enough to hear that you never even even think about me?

Why should you ever think about me? And I thought that I'd outgrow this

kind of thing. Tell me, aren't we supposed to mature or something? I

haven't found that yet, is this as grown-up as we ever get? Maybe this

is as good as it gets. And years may go by, but I think the heart

remains a child. The mind may grow wise, but the heart just sulks and it

whines and remains a child. I think the heart remains a child. Why

don't you love me? Why don't you love me? Why don't you love me?