She won't call me; this I know;
she won't take the time to learn the way I play;
I'll wake up Valentine's Day
...All alone.

She stopped reaching out for me;
I'm not attached enough to take the loss and grieve,
I guess I don't believe
...in "Meant To Be".

I'm never weaker than when sizing up a body by the ounce
and never shallower than when thinking of how a coin would bounce
off of her tender skin; each time that's what does me in, and every time I swear never again...

And that's so wrong...
I favor behind over mind and that's so petty.
I'm not strong;
one glance and all my resolve blows like confetti.
Is this all that I want--to be bored by something pretty?

I think fiction is to blame .
I feel like screaming "Mars and Venus aren't at war",
they just forgot what love is for
...and that's a shame

I never stray too far from things that bring what I want to achieve
'cause every time I do I get let down so much
I can't believe
I might find happiness in somebody that's such a mess,
but every time I tell myself "unless..."

and that's so wrong...

More than pretty's what you are,
Every head is always turning
I could treat you like a trophy on my arm
but slowing down for you's a chore
I wonder when did you stop learning
and I wonder if I'll care when you're not pretty anymore

and that's so wrong...

...so she won't call me; this I know;
and that's alright; she don't complete me anyway.
I don't mind Valentine's Day
...All alone.

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