Who am I

but a question

left open at the edge of silence,

a shadow between the stars

and the skin I wear.

I am

the echo of names I outgrew,

the child who buried his voice

beneath books and broken dreams.

I am

the whisper in crowded rooms,

loud only when I'm alone.

A lover of things that dor st -

like poems,like coffee warmth,

like eyes that don't lie.

a story half-written,

fighting to make sense of pages no one else can read.

Not just a body,

not just a name.

I am

the spaces in between,

the fire that still hums under my quiet.

Who am I?

Maybe I'm still becoming.

Maybe I always will be.