Paper heart dreams

She hands me a journal and tells me to pour out my heart, and I do. I tell her I’m afraid of the future, that I believe in global warming, that one day I’m going to leave this town and never come back. Every picture I draw of her gets more distorted after every page I use. She comes back into the room and I hand her it, she flicks through the journal and frowns;

“It’s empty.”

And I take my index finger and point to my temple;

“It’s because this is my pen…” and I move my finger to her heart, “And this my paper.”