If I had written this on a napkin
Then you'd know it was important
To put it into words,
For no matter how brief a life.
Not that it had to be read now,
Or ever, really, but just entered in the record,
That is, on my account, as if in a ledger,
With columns and rows of symbols.
Yet here on a faux sheet floating in space,
And having no bodily texture,
It lacks everything but meaning.