The closest she has ever gotten to romance
is through the imagery placed between the words
of romance novels.

Only is it here that rebel boys fall for innocent girls;
for how long could strong arms hold shaky bones
without breaking them?

He spends his nights getting lost in the bottle,
she spends hers lost in blank pages;

Her whole life is a written story
in the little composition notebook hidden beneath her bed;
the way his hands ran across her skin will only ever be as real
as the way the pencil ran hastily across the page the next hour.

Why would a spark-plug guy like him
ever find himself at the door of a girl
who only ever loses herself in romance novels.