Sunday, 15 March 2020

Twenty Years Later by John Grey

Your eyes have a plan.
Revert to what they were.
Same with your mouth.
Kisses revisit the first time.

Your nails are painted
a color they clearly remember.
And hair falls on shoulders,
a previous accommodation.

Clothes are from the
comfort zone closet,
tattered jeans,
Blondie t-shirt.

I’m seeing you here and now
and yet I travel by time machine.
I touch your cheek but my fingers
don’t know what year it is.

I hold you close,
where we are, where we once were.
If you’ve ever been young,
some things never grow old.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Transcend, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Hawaii Pacific Review and Clade Song.

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