the curl of your smile, and your

upturned nose, the place 

where your beard shaved down 

grows round your adam’s apple,

hands always moving —

laughter ripples and 

apprehends my focus, then

suddenly, I wish 

we could be children 

sitting on the green metal 

power box outside 

of my grandma’s house 

where I first dreamt about you,

warm in the sunshine, 

impossibly both 

eight years old at the same time,

because I hear him 

echoing through you

whenever you laugh like that:

wholly, presently,

tuned in and leaning 

into imagination,  

sharing it with friends.

now, when I look back 

I can see this half made up 

photograph of you

young and old, unstuck 

in time and superimposed. 

maybe this is why 

I get the feeling 

you’re someone I already