The first thing a Vulcan would dare say in a situation as emotionally compromising as this, would be a high source of irritation for Spock.
"It is illogical."
Spock could say his existence was illogical. The binding of two worlds, both apart in almost every way, and he was stretched and pulled and wrenched between the two.
Perhaps, in his youth, he was attempting to rebel against the cruelties of rationality. Of its evasive course amidst his constant battle against the deep-threaded emotions within him. Flowers taken root, their spidery veins reaching deep into the core of his heart.
There was his mother. The water which fed those incorrigible roots. Every last bit of her that she had relinquished to him the moment he was born, and he cherished the nourishment of her omnipresence in him. He was young yet, still considered adolescent according to the Vulcan culture. But to humanity – he was a grown man.
She would understand. In her sympathy, in her human weakness, as they called it, she always understood her son. He was the product of her rogue tale of love and light years, and so she cherished him.
It was oddly disconcerting, having no place in either worlds. On Vulcan, he was tormented for his human eyes, the feelings that flourished in colors while their sight remained listless and grey. On earth, he was too foreign and rigid for their loose community. A cosmic outcast. But, as the oxymoronic saying went - a beautiful disaster. If Spock could ever be considered beautiful to either society.
The first time he saw her, it was a pale yellow morning. Breakfast, if one was to rummage through the particulars. And he wasn't hungry, which he attributed to the doubt that had begun to accost his stomach. Something like nervousness, his mother once told him, when he'd asked about the strange sensation. Instead of eating, he silently praised the mild charm of the unfurling day.
Shadows were a distant vague dream in this illuminated haven, and the wind was like perfume, soft and ethereal in its pensive travels.
Years after his rejection of his accepted admission to the Science Academy on Vulcan.
Mere months since he'd become a teacher.
Mere minutes since he'd become inspired by a woman he'd never met.
The data slate before him was blank and lifeless, droning only to accommodate his hesitation. But as soon as he saw her slide with fluid ease into the chair beside her green-tinged companion, acquiescent to the glow of the sun, her skin alive with lush heat, he could not contain himself. Irrational. Illogical. All which described the contradictive insurgence to the creed of Vulcan reason. But beautiful, nonetheless.
And behold the shadowed morning,
A sun, tyrant over his haze.
Drinking beauty, forgoing reason,
Over which the mind holds sway.
The bloom of orchids do not bow,
Merely to scientific touch of hand,
But to drinking beauty, forgoing reason
A graze of sentimental man.
She is the shadowed morning,
She lives the perfumed air,
She drinks the beauty, forgoing reason
For when is logic ever fair?
Spock had his reasons. He had his logic.
And after one look, one brush of his hand over the empty data slate, he could only grant his silent gratitude to her fortuitous arrival.
Human, by Anonymous, he scrawled across the electronic page.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am new to the fandom. And because of my love for both poetry and Spock/Uhura, I must draw a connection between the two. I will keep Spock canon, as he is half-Vulcan, but explore his human side too. This IS a full length fic, and it IS Spock/Uhura. But a softer, and different approach in their Academy years. Spock is teacher, and Uhura his student. Perhaps, later, they will discover there are more things to learn from than just logic and mortal attraction itself.
Spock is an anonymous poet in this fic, and Uhura becomes his muse. He publishes his poetry, and Uhura finds it. How ironic? Well, that's later in the story. Not much of a spoiler, I assure you. Please review and let me know if my work is acceptable, and I shall begin sifting through the stories here, and start reviewing myself. :)
Thank you for taking the time to read my prose. Poetry is written by me.
Disclaimer - Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and JJ Abrams.