The Church Next Door [Short Short Story]

Love Sick.

[SO I'm going thru some old stuff trying to become inspired when I find this. It's unfinished and I know I am never going to finish it. It's embarressing. This story makes me cringe.

It's valentines day in High School and their teacher has made them write a love poem. ]

I love your lips.

I love your hair.

I love your eyes.

I love your stare.

Awkward snickers broke out at the simple start of my Valentines day poem and I hesitated, glancing up at my boyfriend in the back of the room. Mrs. Valence had said that today we would take a break from our usual class work and write a poem for the occasion. After about five students and their poems, all of which featured starry eyes, it was my turn. I continued on bravely, raising my voice to carry over the din. No matter how embarrassing this was, I wanted him to hear it. Even if my poem sucked.

I love the freckle on your chin

I love your dimple when you grin

I love the way my world spins

When you became my lucky win.

Okay that sucked, but give me a break, I had to pull this together in one sitting, knowing all the while that I was going to stand up and read this to everyone. It’s not even a perfect rhyme. I am a perfectionist at heart and 'spins' and 'win' just grates at me.

I love the depth in your gaze

How you see thru’ those greys

Straight in to my heart

All my secrets, betrayed.

The class was quieter now and I clenched the paper tightly, knowing that they were really listening. I think I would have prefered the snickering over this.

I love the feel of your hand

In my own like a brand

On my very flesh.

I am yours to command.

Corny, so corny. Someone stop me.

I love your smile so bright

My midnight delight

Your breath on my ear

My body your frontier.

A fangirl squealed. She wanted the good stuff but I wasn’t going to give it to her. The poem was practically over but I hated how it ended. It didn’t rhyme at all. It was an imperfect poem for a perfect man and wasn't worthy of him.

But most of all…

Here it comes…

I love that when I see you

It feels like coming home.

I paused a moment while I tried to unlock my knees and reluctantly took in the classes reaction. Very few looked impressed. The fangirls looked disappointed that I didn’t divulge any juicy details in my epic tale while the guys looked relieved. Others just looked confused. Like they were trying to figure out if that was really the end.

I rushed back to my seat, blood rushing to my face while the teacher gave me an obligatory comment and called up the next student. The crappy poems continued.

And then he was called up. My perfect man.

He cares about me more than I deserve.

He thinks that I am perfect, and himself unworthy.

I don’t know how many times I’ve told him that he’s got it all backwards.

He spoke plainly, without the usual cadence that you expect from poetry and not a single line rhymed. There was no tempo to follow, no stanzas.

After another moment I realized it was a love letter, one sentence at a time. Genius. Why didn’t I do something like this instead of those embarrassing rhymes? This was so much cooler. Slam poetry and all that. He was so perfect.

He continued and I listened to the rest of his… Poem in a happy daze. When he finished everybody was confused. Clearly they didn’t recognize his genius like I did.

He sat down in his seat without a care, his leather creaking as he leaned back and crossed his arms, causing his tattoos to flex.

My Perfect Man.

***

[That's it. We'll just call this the end]