Better Version of You

His hands are always clean, his hair always neatly trimmed.
He doesn't slouch over the table when he reads the morning paper,
And he brings me my coffee before I've gotten out of bed.

He's a doctor in the city, caring for children with no homes.
He runs five miles in the morning and then again at night.
And after a shower, he makes me dinner, and sings songs by Buddy Holly.

When he sleeps he doesn't make a sound, instead just holds me tight.
He doesn't fear death or the uncertainties of tomorrow.
And I've never seen him frown or put a single person down.

I've never found fault with him, and we never ever fight.
His parents call me once a week,
And I know he'll always be there for me.

But he's boring as hell.

He doesn't understand my jokes, and he agrees with everything I say.
He won't let me fix him dinner or lift a single finger,
And his parents call me once a week.

But I thought he looked just like you
And even walked the same.
So when he asked,
of course,
I told him my name.