Late night car rides,
Empty pints of *****,
A one-night ecstacy,
With a heartbreak dawn:

She shows her shallows,
As if they're great depths;
A cry of sorrow? Honey,
You ain't seen nothing yet.

She's not an open book,
She's just a bookmark type of personality.
Stuck between the pages of something more interesting,
Like a catalog or a Cosmo magazine.

Oh, she's always just caught between someone's pages,
With bits and pieces of their's stories rubbing off on her,
But them words don't look the same tattooed on her, oh no.

So stop pretending you're the deepest sea,
Your pretentious crap never fooled me.