Analysis of "How Our Melodies Differed"

She liked the chords of the guitar, but all I ever was, was a hopeless romantic melody of the piano.
A rose in the bouquet full of dandelions that she wanted.
The rain in the spring, full of butterflies and blooming flowers.
A bright morning sunshine for her, the moon that she loved talking to at night.
And yeah, a bandage for her pain that she always wanted.

Even though I survived her lows and enjoyed her highs, it doesn't necessarily mean I should be the one, right?

Piano's never guitar, even though the melodies are the same.
Roses are never dandelions, even though they bloom.
Rains are pretty annoying, but springs when all those flowers bloom.
Sunshines aren't nights.
And bandages can't heal those wounds.