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.