You are the word less used, an unpicked bloom,
a name unmentioned
when everyone else have been called

sometimes you make discourses with your shadow
arguing why, but you get no answer

your letter to Santa contains a wish for “a hand to hold”, year after year,
but you never got them, so Santa
probably, isn’t real

there are 7 billion people in the world, none of them
tagged with the name ‘yours’, or at least
not yet; names can be changed afterwards

you’d pen yours with another’s, if only you can get out of this cage
like a music note held in the bar with a crowded arrangement
everyone is ignorant of how you sound

but you can sing it yourself, you can call out your name
let it ring inside your ears, over and over, like a steady symphony

when you look at yourself in that puddle after the rain, reflections
don’t have to be in another’s eyes but yours

you are a secret, a spectacle, a dancing light in a crammed tableau

the problem is not to own or being owned, remember:
before you belong to someone, you must belong to you.