The heart remains a child

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?