I Was Never Named - Voice of a Dream That Was Never Born

 I was never named,

never whispered in a breath of hope

or folded gently between the pages of a prayer.

No cradle waited for me,

no morning sun dared speak me into light.

I lingered, a hush

in the curve of an unborn thought,

a flicker between heartbeats

as silence passed me by.

I was a shimmer—

not yet laughter, not yet weeping,

just the pulse of what could be

in a world too hurried

to remember the language of yearning.

I saw you once—

your eyes tired from too many yesterdays,

your hands calloused from carrying

promises too heavy to keep.

I wanted to be the lightness you lost.

I dreamed myself in colors

you had long forgotten—

soft marigolds of childhood,

saffron evenings brimming with kites,

the silver of monsoon winds

pressing poems into the skin of the earth.

But no one called for me.

And so I drifted

into the shadows behind your sigh,

into the hush beneath your music,

into the hush beneath your sleep.

Still, I watch—

not with longing, but with wonder.

I have become the dream

of a dream,

carried only

by the wind

that once brushed your cheek

as you looked away.