"I bet you think this song is about you"

Years ago I dated a woman who constantly debated with me about the person referenced in that famous song. Neither of us were particularly fond of the song itself, but had an affection for fighting with one another. I wasn't a huge fan of her brand of independent, peppy, lyric-heavy musical genre, as it was too tedious and 'poppy' for me. Yet, after incessant car trips, and late night hang outs, it slowly began to grow on me. (Or fester?)

In an ironic twist, as our relationship was breaking up, this music (of hers) became my crutch, my salvation, my consolation – that someone else out there had a heart as broken as mine. I studied the verses, obsessed over each album, and made them my own. Slowly I felt better in the alone-ness of my seemingly vacant apartment. I guess you could call it healing. Identifying with this one guy's varied approaches to telling the same pathetic story over and over again about the woman he loved and lost. There was someone else as pitiful and regretful as I was...

This complete stranger, whom I now felt like I knew so intimately, seemed to love as deeply as I did, and felt just as lost without his dearest by his side, too. He became my demigod, being able to craft such intricate poetry that flowed effortlessly, yet intentionally, as if we were simply chatting over a latte, or microbrew. These love songs, or 'love-lost' songs, became the antidote to my despair. Through finding him, I felt like I had been found, as if someone else knew my inner most thoughts and feelings. I had only hoped that I could one day transform my own pain and upset to create something so gorgeous and accessible to be of use to some other poor sod out there in the world. Dare to dream.

But then the most unthinkable thing happened by complete accident: I met and loosely befriended the woman who was the subject of the multitude of albums and thousands of lyrics that I charted and graphed during my own recovery. Through meeting her, a strange thing occurred in me – rather than emphatically pleading that she go back to the writer of the most eloquent songs I have ever heard, I simply listened... Not only to her, but to our friend in common, who illuminated her side of the tragedy.

It hit me... Finally, I could comprehend the biggest tragedy of all: this master writer who could tell all the world how much he adored and still faltered, could make everyone else fall in love with him because of his craft – everyone but his beloved. He never gave her a reason to stay. And suddenly, all of these 'love-lost' songs that felt like my own anthems, they turned on me, and lost the passionate threads through which I connected. Instead, he became a man, just like any other: fallible, deficient, and unsure. This martyr in my mind, who could do no wrong, sharply appeared as a mediocre boyfriend that perhaps was destined to be left by this pretty incredible woman. Dozens of albums dedicated after her departure didn't seem to be enough to lure her back. And so it went...

It's been many years since I first heard those songs that have such a different meaning to me. As much as I would love to be a writer as poignant and prolific as he is, I'd rather be a boyfriend worth keeping... After my last 'love letter' trying to woo a nearly perfect woman (and failing), I see that all of the words in the world couldn't compete with a *feeling* that I just couldn't give her.

Despite being so verbose and rambly, words fail me. And once again, I realize that I am not alone.