The Gap

A part of me I’ll never meet, Lives in the head of those I greet. Though try his best to paint me kind, there’s always something misaligned.

I love art by impressionists! And ne’er am I a pessimist. That day you met me, I had cried, The only chance to cross your mind.

I’m sorry I assumed your name, Or told a joke that didn’t land. I’m sorry for the things I say, the ones you cannot understand.

If I could climb inside your brain, and meet the man who shares my name, would he be someone I distain? Or would I wish him well?

That last part was for emphasis, a break in rhyming elements. But have you stopped to think of those who never saw your blessedness?

Perhaps the point of funerals, which often goes unsaid, is collecting versions of your soul from every person’s head.

These shards then form a person whole, a strawman made of memory. It’s not enough to stop the grief, but it’s the best that we can remedy.

Perhaps then, your morality reduces to this key: is this self that they construct a self you’d let them keep?