The Name I Never Wore

In a notebook, faded lines

where names were crossed and scratched out,

a quiet litter of could-have-beens.

A friend called me last night—

the name was nearly mine,

like a shadow that walked beside me,

something I almost knew.

It tastes like a door left open,

a pause between syllables that weren’t spoken,

a face in a cracked mirror,

half-familiar, never quite mine.

Maybe that name lives

in the corners of things,

whispered in the spaces

where I almost stood still.