Fragments of me

It’s strange how love can feel like recognition,
like stepping into a room and finding a mirror where a wall should be.

You always called me by my name,
and were the only one to ever pronounce it right.

Not just the syllables,
but the weight of it, the air it displaces,
the way it blooms between breath and sound.

You said it like it belonged,
like I belonged,
not a stray letter misplaced in someone else’s story.

And in that knowing,
you made me a question I no longer feared answering.

Who am I?
Someone worth saying aloud,
worth holding in the echo of your voice.

The world mispronounces me daily,
bends my identity into sharp corners
and awkward shapes I can’t quite wear.

But you,

you spoke me whole,
syllables like steady hands piecing together
the parts I thought too jagged for anyone to hold.

Love, it turns out, isn’t just a feeling�"
it’s a sound, a resonance, a calling back to yourself
through someone else’s lips.

You gave me back to myself,
piece by patient piece.
Every time you called my name,
it sounded like a promise
I didn’t know I’d made to live, fully.