She looked deep into the pages
Of the book she held and read,
And felt herself drawn to the fictional boy,
The fifteen-year-old redhead.
He wasn't the main hero,
Nor starred in the main parts,
But as she kept on reading his story,
Something about him gripped her heart.
She cried for him in his weakness
And hurt along with his pain,
And in the scenes where he was charming and happy,
Her face was all smiles once again.
Before she had gotten very far in the story,
She knew she liked him a lot,
And she whispered to him sadly as she touched the pages,
"I'd date you if you were real - but you're not."
He lived inside the pages
Of a fictional series that day
When he met his favorite reader
And she stole his heart away.
He felt, as she read, he was getting to know her,
Just the same as she felt about him,
Yet whenever she put the book down for a while,
Her thoughts that he saw would go dim;
For whenever he touched the page she was touching,
It was like he entered her mind,
But they couldn't really communicate with each other
Because their worlds were of two different kinds.
He came to love her companionship,
And he liked it when she laughed;
He appreciated the fullness of her depth
While others often saw only half.
He fell for her personality,
And he knew she had a good heart;
And the way she so often could relate to him
Was one of the very best parts.
But, alas! The unmoveable, unbreakable barrier
Between real life and fiction remained.
It stood fast in spite of a world full of wishing,
No matter how much avid readers complained.
So day after day, as she read through his story,
She thought, "I like him - I wish he'd come true,"
And on his side he thought if he could tell her just one thing,
He'd say, "I have a crush on you, too."