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.