Her Name, Mine

We sat where the orchard meets the dusk, Legs folded like unopened letters. She laughed, and the wind— Traitorous — carried it straight through me. There was dirt beneath our nails, Scratched from some old pretending, And sap on our skin like guilt. We called it a game, that closeness, Two girls learning the language Of not touching. She wore her hair long, like mine— A mirror I was not meant to love. Mothers like ours taught silence With a tilt of the chin, How to braid want into something neat, Tame, and unseen. We told the moon things we couldn’t Even whisper to each other: How boys felt like paper Pressed too tight against the teeth, How every kiss tasted like ash If it wasn’t her. Once, she almost said it— That thing between the ribs Too soft to survive daylight. But the word died in her mouth, And I smiled like it hadn’t, Just to keep her. I watched her marry a man with kind eyes. I watched her wear white As if it fit. She never looked back. I didn’t wave. But still, Sometimes I dream we’re fourteen again, Shoulders brushing in the orchard dark, And she doesn’t pull away. In that dream, I say her name like it’s mine. And she doesn’t wince. And no one tells us It’s just a phase.