Second Row

Second Row

I am always the second plate,

the whisper no one waits for,

the shadow that settles

behind the shine of others.

I sit at everyone’s table,

but no one ever served me first;

no one saw that my hands

also long to be held.

I walk on the edges of the world,

silent, invisible,

like an echo undeserving of echo,

a heart that learns to bend

so it doesn’t get in the way.

But even in the second row,

my soul remains whole,

my light keeps beating