I put my face on his to match

our time-lapsed eyes; do we look the same?

 

We stare without smiles, faces split

into two overlaid portraits. 

 

Five hundred years ago he posed

for oils to capture the fashions

 

of moustaches and jewelled necks,

sashes and headpieces in peacock colours.

 

I touch my face to feel the shapes

I see in his portrait. It’s hard to tell

 

if that curve of our noses

slides the same way under my fingers,

 

if our chins fold in under lips

that speak the same language at home.

 

But there is a shoulder that slopes

to the left, hair that sits before an ear

 

a strand or two falling just like mine

as we stand still before each other.