“Ok class, now today we’re moving onto late twentieth century poetry. I’d like to talk about Rob McKuen. He was a popular poet in the sixties,” the teacher explained, pausing while the kids groaned. “I know you’re thinking, “Oh great, stuff my parents weren’t into,” the teacher mocked sarcastically. “But,” she continued, “the guy new his stuff. He talked about love a lot. He seemed to think he had a good understanding of it.” The teacher paused again, looking over her students. She noticed Max staring at Liz. “Mr. Evan!” the teacher called.

Max snapped out of his trance. “Huh?” he asked, confused because he wasn’t paying attention to the teacher. Some in the class laughed.

The teacher smiled, “I’d like you to read for us.” She handed him the book. “Page 8.”

Max was petrified; he hated reading in front of the class. He began, “Declaration.” He paused.

“Good ahead, don’t be shy,” the teacher encouraged.

“Your mouth is my undoing,” Max read, trying not to blush. “So it is and so it should be. Closed or open, private or in public places I covet your mouth, often hearing not a word that issues from it but knowing every sound by heart.”

Again, the class laughed with immaturity. “Thank you,” the teacher said smiling and taking the book.

She continued to ramble on, but Max didn’t hear a word. He kept thinking about the words he had just spoken. They weren’t his own, he would have a hard time ever writing something that good, but it was true nonetheless. That was exactly how he felt about Liz Parker. He looked at her, but she was already staring at him. They held the gaze for a few moments. She knew exactly how he felt. She felt the same even. They knew what each other were thinking, just from that one look. But they also knew that they could never be together. They were too different. Everyone knows opposites attract, but they weren’t even opposites. They were just two people who were different, but they loved each other. It hurt that they couldn’t be together, but they were convinced it was for the best. Maybe...