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?

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