[Opening — almost clinical, over a precise 6/8 pulse] He made her beautiful. Of course he did. He had all the tools. And she had no opinion. [Cut I — measured, mechanical] A little less around the mouth. A little more around the eyes. Remove the anger. Smooth the doubt. Correct the inconvenient lines. Make her quiet. Make her graceful. Make her never leave the room. Give her everything a man might love— except the right to choose. Chisel gently. Call it beauty. Stand back. Admire. Perfect. Nothing in her can object to his desire. [Fracture — rhythm slips] And this is called a love story? No. I object. [Refrain — meter suddenly opens] Do not make me and call it love. Do not shape me to fit your hands. Do not praise me for becoming exactly what your loneliness planned. Love me wrong. Love me changing. Love the answer you did not expect. If I cannot disappoint you, you have never met me yet. [Cut II — percussion like carving tools] The clever part is the miracle. She wakes. She breathes. She sees. Wonderful. But tell me— what does she want? Nobody seems particularly interested in these. Does she like him? Does she choose him? Does she hate the dress? Does she wake on Tuesday morning and say: Actually, no. I prefer someone else. There. Now we have a love story. [Instrumental fault — pulse stutters, cello and prepared piano] Because a person is not successful when completed. A person is successful when unfinished. [Refrain — more forceful] Do not make me and call it love. Do not polish what you fear. Do not carve away the difference until only you appear. Love me difficult. Love me moving. Love the parts you cannot own. If you need to make me perfect, you would rather love a stone. [Middle — very sparse, almost whispered] Perhaps that was the attraction. Stone does not contradict. Stone does not change its mind. Stone does not remember what you said last Thursday. Stone does not say: Don’t touch me. Stone does not laugh at your theory of stone. Very convenient. Very lonely. [Release — rhythm becomes loose, human] So let her step down from the pedestal. Not elegantly. Let her stumble. Let her swear. Let her discover bad music. Let her cut her own hair. Let her choose the wrong colour. Let her close the studio door. Let her become everything he never asked for. And then— if he still loves her— perhaps we can begin. [Final Refrain — open, fierce, almost joyful] Do not make me and call it love. Meet me before you decide. Let me carry something foreign you cannot correct or hide. Let me alter. Let me leave you. Let me stay because I choose. Love is not a perfect statue that finally learned to move. Love begins when your creation looks you calmly in the eye and says: I am not what you imagined. And you answer: Good. Neither am I. [Outro — pulse gone completely] Pygmalion made perfection. Perhaps that was his mistake. A lover does not need a masterpiece. A lover needs someone they did not make.
