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 obligations waiting in the driveway.
No ancestral hands resting on our shoulders.
No eyes watching to see whether we become
what we were assigned.

Just two people
standing in the quiet of a kitchen
that smells faintly of detergent and rice.

We would argue about whose turn it is to fold the laundry.
You would hold up a small sock
like it was evidence of something sacred.
The dryer would hum
steady, forgiving.
We would lean against the counter
like we had always belonged there.

Outside, the world would continue its rehearsals of power.
Its banquets and its markets.
Its expectations.

But inside, the only ceremony would be this:
your shoulder brushing mine.
The soft collision of cotton.
The children asleep down the hall,
breathing like the ocean in miniature.

In this other life,
we would not be symbols.

You would not be the son of anything.
I would not be the proof of anything.

We would not need to justify why we chose each other.

We would sneak away
while the house is finally still,
bare feet against cold tile,
trying not to laugh too loudly.

In bed, we would roll ourselves into blankets
like children pretending to be burritos,
the kind of foolish joy that requires no audience.
The kind of love that does not negotiate with consequence.

I think about that sometimes
how different it might feel
to love without the weight of legacy.
Without the careful choreography.
Without calculating what staying costs.

Not because our real lives are wrong.
They are simply heavy.

In this life, we carry names like heirlooms.
We carry futures that were drafted before we were born.
We make careful choices.
We consider more than ourselves.

In that other life,
we would consider nothing but whether the rice is done
and whether the children are warm enough.

If the world ended,
if everything we are known for dissolved
would we find each other in the laundry room?
Would we laugh at the absurdity of it all?
Would we finally be small enough to fit into one life together?

I don’t ask because I regret this one.

I ask because somewhere inside me
there is a version of us
that exists without duty,
without noise,
without being watched.

Just two people
folding the same shirt,
holding it at opposite ends,
refusing to let go first.