What’s it called when you visit a place

you’ve since outgrown—that red-haired

reverse feeling of deja vu? There you are,

fire thin and propped against the red bone brick,

a cigarette stuck between cherry glossed lips,

glitter roll-on you bought from Claire’s.

You smell of smoke and sex and seventeen,

and you swear she’s real, you’re real, you’re there,

right there, all bright and blood and past.

It doesn’t last. You blink, and she is smoke,

a crumpled-up mirage. Everything fades,

especially the past. You are back

to mismatched socks, a doughy mother

in elastic sweatpants, baby spit-up tattooed

against your shoulder. You smell of old milk

and beige walls and weekly Botox, except now

you remember. There is another you. Somewhere

you are smoking, and the brick is burning

against your brittle back, and life is big,

and anything is possible. Most of all, this.