Happy Memorial Day. I'm the guy you forget. I'm the gravestone you pass by because it lacks a name. I'm the grave with only unidentifiable cracking bones. People remember me as blank slate. Or maybe they remember me as a rose that one person left for me last year. It's pretty dried up right now, I can barely tell that it even came from a living plant.
I guess I'm okay with it, being forgotten. I can't do much about it, being dead. I bet you can remember me, even if it means just conjuring up a black and white image of your great uncle Fred, and give him blonde hair instead of brown. I'm pretty sure he won't mind either. It'll be a start anyway.
No, it's okay. You can leave the dried rose. I kind of like it. It suits me. I'm not really sure when I'll get my next one.
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