If You were Brian Wilson, I would be a most wonderful muse.
You would write songs about alternately loving me and hating me.
…about heartache and high school.
…about emotion and dreams.
…about how everything might be terrible, but you are still able to sing in lovely harmony.
But You aren’t Brian Wilson.
And while You do write music, so far as I know it isn’t about the above topics and certainly isn’t about me.
So nothing productive comes of all the pain I cause.
There are no beautiful, sad songs and there are no songs about you being happy with me every once in a while. There is no dream poetry. No “Wouldn’t It Be Nice.” It all stays inside and hurts You, and then usually hurts me, too, eventually and in a guilty sort of way.
For this I can only say what I have said too many times: I'm sorry.
And, really, darling, be more meaningful with your disappointment.
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