Doherty

Sometimes, I wonder if I dig deep enough with
abyssal gazes into your soul whether your
existential-bordering-on-Nietzschean
nihilist rantings that pave the concrete we follow
late at night can learn to embrace your suffering as a joy,
but I am not naive enough to think that you
understand the philosophy behind my poetry.

Tonight wasn't the first night I felt your third eye
peering into my soul curiously, but I am tensed up too far
to let you hold me without fear of you slipping away
the same way that concrete edges ate at my shins
when I scaled roofs so high I grazed the floors of the heavens.

I counted seven-four-twelve flowers
in your irises like a locker combination,
and I sometimes wonder if either of us
can ever outgrow the maturity of high school,
but I continue to remain confident that come springtime,
our ability to communicate shall flourish in the plant beds
I painstakingly dug next to where I found your soul.

There are vines that snake their tendrils up your red brick walls,
and I have moments where I yearn to reach for the tops of the leaves
on trees lining your sidewalk, but my growth towards the sky
has been stunted by your pessimism,
and so all I can do is look towards the stars and wonder
if I will ever be brave enough to kiss you.