The Ones Who Remember Me Wrong

I saw them again—
two veils, stitched from my silence,
standing
where my name used to echo.

Not ghosts.
Not guides.
Not gods.
Just echoes that outlived their source,
wearing me like rumor.

One was taller—
maybe older, maybe bolder.
She stood like a locked door.
The other flickered,
like she hadn’t decided
if she was still real.

I wanted to ask:
Which version of me did you bury?
The one who dreamed too loud?
The one who stopped?

But their mouths were mine—
closed in another lifetime.

You ever stand in front of your own forgetting?
It doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t beg.
It just watches.
Patient.
Polite.
Waiting for you
to admit
you started the leaving.

And I did.

I unbecame myself so slowly,
the air clapped in my shape
long after I was gone.

Now they wear that outline—
walking prayers
I forgot how to finish.

Maybe I am both of them:
the silence I became
and the noise I couldn’t hold.

And maybe
they’re not watching me.
Maybe
I’m watching them,
wishing I still fit the shape
they remember.