class fifteen

Adam


Could I hope to understand you?
Could I hope to ever point to
what it is that sets your step, and
brings about your smile? Or could I
think of you without your face or
form and then still know this you? Are

you your face? Without your coursely
bearded, boyish mask, the scar that
tears your forehead, sad eyes that still
seem to smile, your build that others
have compared to a Greek god–then
would you still be you? I think you

would be. And I’m pleased that you are
more than stunning ruggedness. In
blond-curled youth, did you still have this
full-blown confidence, this solid
stepping hold upon yourself–as
if the eyes of all were chained to

every part of you at once? Your
actions seem deliberated,
as if you’re picking flowers of your
movements, casting off the weeds and
thorns, rejoicing then in final
posy of yourself. I’ve long

admired you–once, from scared, shy distance–
hoping I would break down what stood
locked between us with this coy,
supposed charm–and then from new and
comfortable strangerhood. I
see you now as friend that has the

daunting gift of pulling my face
into unassuming smile when
days are at their darkest depth–each
time your nonchalance is more than
satisfying. I’ve been waiting
for your re-affirming gaze, and

when it’s granted, like the dog that
waits for you outside of school, my
tail is wildly wagging and
it takes all that I have to stop
myself from leaping
uncontrollably with joy.