his funeral

my eyelids fall closed. this has been a long service. he was so young. he was blonde, sickly... plain looking up close. he told me he wished me looked like me. he admired me on foggy nights, musing about my form. he said my body reminded him of a baroque painting. he said he meant it in a good way. I remember, he pushed his glasses down his nose, looking at me quietly. I asked him, "can you see me without your glasses?" he told me my shape was burned into his memory, and that he was just testing it. I stand over the closed casket. it's empty, but they don't know it. it's the least I can do to remove my glasses as I begin to weep.