There is a shadow I carry,
not behind me, but beside,
walking in step, yet drifting,
a figure neither friend nor foe.
It wears my face but not my name,
speaks in a voice too sharp to be mine,
a mirror turned slightly askew,
showing what I might have been.
At night, it lingers longer,
slipping through thoughts I didn’t call,
rewriting answers I once believed,
rewinding moments I let fall.
I wonder if it envies me,
or if I envy it instead,
this stranger carved from my silence,
who dares to live where I held back.
When the morning comes, it fades,
folding neatly into the corners of me.
Yet I know it waits, watching,
patient for the next crack of doubt.