Déjà vu

Before you are born,

I paint your half smile.

I see a schoolboy tie;

your sensitive hands touch

an open book.

Your voice floats high

above playground noise,

the sound of scissors.

I hover restless, long,

until your hair is no longer the color

of pencil shavings,

until you speak the low

calm of a red rose.

tk/ September 2013

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for beautifully reading this poem. 

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