by menonmyth

In your sleep
you see the face of your future lover
in the reel of the past, black and white.

His face has aged
the crow’s feet crinkling together
like the patterns on a dumpling, pleated and wrapped.

Your arms touch
unlocking the box of memories
where you see a rusty photograph, of you and him.

You smell again
the blooming magnolia
covering the streets, inch by inch.

You wake up
realizing nostalgia and dreaming
are two sides of the same coin, flip over or flip out.