The Shape My Name Takes in Your Mouth

It’s different
when you say it.

Softer,
like it’s something you found
and didn’t want to break.

No rush.
You let it settle
on your tongue,
curl in the warmth
between breath and meaning.

Sometimes
you barely say it at all—
just hum it
into my shoulder,
or murmur it
to the space between
sleep and waking.

I’ve heard it
shouted,
slurred,
scrawled on forms
and barked in anger.

But from you,
it’s a secret.

Not hidden,
held.

And I think
if I ever forget who I am,
you could say it
and I’d remember.

Ryan Stone