What Might Have Been

In an old album, the dust breathes alive,

my mother’s pen dances, unknowing of fate—

carefully curling around names she’d contrive,

like secrets wrapped tight, caught before I could wait.

‘Alice’ she wrote in cursive, elegant grace,

as I pause, wonder who I would be—

maybe a whisper in a faraway place,

yet here I am, just a shadow, still me.

An ink stain spills memories, reckless and bold,

of paths untraveled and futures untold;

while other lives whisper in colors unseen,

I ponder the spaces between what has been.