You have a sweet heart, coated in poison syrup, dripping through your fingers. You have a hot heart, steam fogs the windows of your phone booth. You have a bright heart. Nobody can see your smile. Enemies come and go. Lines grow and contract. Math holds our attention for a minute or two. But your heart ticks down. You have a consistent heart. Your heart is genre fiction. We can all read it and we all know how it is going to end. Your heart is love steroids. You amplify your sentimental reactions and hold a fragile hand over your chest. Your heart is magic marker, swiping impromptu lines and fond doodles on everyone you meet. Your heart is Christmas colored. Your family draws close to it to give gifts and strike affectionate poses.