Her heart is too big for her chest so it spreads down her arms and she has to wear it on her sleeves. She’s the girl who reads, she drinks her tea and sips her coffee at the café where she likes to write the million things in her head down. She quotes her father, loves to be his daughter. And as she stares into my eyes, she kisses me, she tells me she loves me.
And how can I ever live up to that?
How could I ever be someone more than another character in a book with lines like words across my body shouting sentences into life. They scream who I am and where I’m going. How I get there and the plan is quite easy to share. Everyone can read it, and everyone can see it. Except for me, the lost lone little character living between those lines.
We talk, the plot and I about what I really am to it. And it sees me there, filling the role that needs to be played so that events occur and tomorrow is today and yesterday becomes our successes, our reasons, our regrets. When the sentences aren’t finished, I unravel and unfold. The period can’t hold me back as I spill out onto the page and become what was my essence and my fear; mediocrity and overestimated expectations.
Trying to read me is like trying to read a map. With faces like legends in the corner you keep checking. Lines the curve and bend to reach their destination but with extreme hesitation I move through the goals of mine and the roles of life. All the checkpoints and landmarks flash by as I run on, forgetting the last time I cried myself to sleep because the errors I might contain.
With pencils marks they note me. Detours and routines. The roads they traveled so clear in my path that I can’t help but contour to them, like landmasses in the mountain cliffs form sharp  edges, powerful in their definition. That the borders on them are so fine I could fall off and sink deeper and deeper in the unknown. The ink spilling over the top, running down the page and I can run through it, leaving my footsteps as I know them, as I’ve practiced them over time.
Getting my legs under me I sprint through the pages chasing after the heart that causes my seizing chest to long out in agony and romantic ideals of tomorrow. Every second a footstep and every beat a second thought in the mind of a foreshadow bound boy. Only scared of what my image might be to the world and confident that as long as I can make you happy in our future that fear is how I can live up to you.
So I can kiss you back.