An old poem that I wrote

In another life, you would not have your name.

It would not arrive before you in rooms.
It would not carry expectation like a tailored coat
you never take off.

And I would not have mine
not the one stitched with survival,
not the one that learned to count its steps,
to measure, to make its own way.

In that other life,
we would meet without inheritance.

No obliga…