Someone I sort-of kind-of knew, I learn has died.
I heard the should-be-sadder news today, a fortnight on.
It feels too late for grieving, so I haven’t cried –
I vaguely wish I could, but still I’m dry inside.
For truth – I feel removed, my slightly-closeness gone –
I know I have no right to, but I feel a touch denied.
But that’s alright, it’s just a touch,
And maybe they’d admit that they would only half-remember me.
I know I knew them not so much,
But let me dwell a bit upon their insufficient memory.