An Empty Book

I have a bad habit of being an empty book, 

Of  being that winter night where everything is off the hook

I’ll always be wearing my heart over my shirt instead of under it. 

Not that you’d appreciate it much, but quite a bit

In the prologue of the Book of Me,

I'll tell you nothing, all in white as you can see

I might whisper to you the stories of how I got some of my scars

But the rest of “who am I?” is only written in the stars 

I might tell you how they've been inked so deep

But the rest is left for you to seek

On a night like this, where the moonlight kisses our eyes

You’ll be pleading for answers while I’m watching the skies

You'll ask me: So, what's your favorite color? What's your favorite book on the shelf?

I’ll point to my unfinished book and smile, "you should look it up yourself".

The pages will turn like dried leaves, and instead, you’ll discover the reasons why I refuse to speak.

You’ll see how my ceilings leak and how the floors constantly creak

It’s never because of winter, or autumns' wind

It’s all because of what the fate might bring

When you’re done reading, I hope you’ll want to stay.

Maybe then I will tell you: My favorite color is blue. And my favorite book is the one in grey