Young

Just when you think you're getting somewhere in the way of maturity,

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.