The Heart Remains a Child
I dreamed about you again last night. You never have the same facetwice, 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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