by Connor Zimmerman ’20
It must be perfect,
It cannot be any ordinary object.
It must make her smile, laugh, and cry.
It should be the apple of her eye.
Browsing through the stores,
The clock is ticking, and doors are closing.
Sweat begins to run down my face,
It feels like I’m running in a race.
Her friends tell me it should be chic.
I’m actually starting to freak.
My friends tell me it should be legendary.
I might as well be buried.
Google tells me it should be from the heart.
Maybe I’m just not that smart.
I don’t know why I can’t think of anything,
Maybe it’s because this just isn’t any fling.
I really care about what she thinks of me,
And I was hoping this gift would fill her with glee.
Then an idea strikes me, and I know this is the one,
This is no hit, it’s a home run.
I give her the gift, and as she unwraps it,
I start to worry and think maybe it’s time to split.
She gasps and then hugs me tight.
I take a deep breath knowing it’s going to be all right.
She opens the scrapbook of our memories with much effect;
She closes it up and says it’s perfect.