a creased and creased again forehead
that raised mounted eyebrows to accompany a laugh
or gasp at the pinnacle point of a movie,
to greet a passing friend,
a passing stranger,
reminds you that 19, no 18
when skin still resists its familiar folds
is young.
Just when you think you've learned enough to be considered an adult,
a set of five fingers, a warm and worn hand
that, pudgy, wrapped around a parent's fingers once,
that learned to comfort
as it nervously found a place on a shoulder
where it squeezed,
warmed the skin of a friend,
the skin of a stranger,
reminds you that your 21, 19, no 18
year old hands
are still young.
When the things that await you
like hands that know where to sit on a shoulder
and eyebrows that know where to sit on a forehead
make the present seem like a glimpse of the someday future's past
just then
you are young.
