Boy on the fourth floor,
I feel that I've let you down, like I've not been there for you like I should.
It was my job to tear down your walls, to lift you up to a better place.
Somewhere where you could breathe and it would not hurt.
But I've let you down.
It was my hope to make you happier, but with each passing year...
Your voice has gotten lower, the weight on your chest probably pulling you down again.
Your expression more dark, as if a cloud was following you around all day.
And what did I do?
Have a couple phone calls with you, none of which helped take some things off your plate.
It's true, I'm not the friend you once adored. I'm not who you think.
I'm more of a chore.
So as I write this to you, please don't tell me I'm the "best" anymore.
I'm sorry. I could have done more.
