your ragged pink converse tap on my chair
yet it is impossible to complain
you sit behind me with piled up hair
on top of a face that looks rather plain
your features are not anything to gloat
it is odd that I find you appealing
I get the courage to write you a note
of the emotions I am concealing
I pass it back with some well measured fear
and hear the responding, disgusted gasp
“What the hell is wrong with you, I’m not queer!”
and then the torn up note fell from your grasp
I pick up the shreds as you sneak away
these words I’ll give to the right girl someday