Me as a Memory

I think if I were looking for re-incarnation
I would come back as a dried flower
one that could be sat in a copper vase,
or perhaps plain plastic as copper
would likely be stolen, sat on the front edge
of a grave. I could see the mourners,
detect the true depth of sorrow
that some may carry, detect the fake.
I would become colourless, a mottled grey
eventually, that would blend in with headstones
and weathered concrete that only lichen
caress. I would watch you closely,
and determine how deep you feel
the passing, of friends, lovers, me
even though I know I am merely a momentary
lapse in your life. Perhaps
as a dried flower you would give me more attention
a glance at least, a tear, perhaps
you would keep me as a memory then.