Can't Get You Out of My Head

To whom will I tell my story, ever,
That I have no right to say it
And nothing to really say anyway.

Will I go, of course, to the services,
Not for myself, not to pretend I have a loss to mourn,
Not for you, you will not be there,
Nor expecting my arrival if you were,
Simply in show of support of those there
About whom I quite deeply care.

My loss is no greater than that of the world,
An impatient world, so captivated by its own arrogant belief,
That anything worth knowing about will present itself,
And thus never even knows what it has to miss.

No farther from humility than perfection,
Yet no closer to it, surely,
I can be blessed not to have such full arrogance
As that, not in this case,
For I know, at least, that there is something to be missed.
So little do I know, but that is sure.

But now, at a loss for action to be taken,
Do I say, do I share, do I tell
the secrets you have shown to me?

Each person to every other is but a band of secrets.
As best we know, as best we try to learn
what we each are, what the other truly is,
there is no way to see it all, to know.
Each moment, each interaction, shows a glimpse,
a piece seen and felt by no others.

This is what I have, what is mine,
Only a series of moments and glimpses seen by no others,
A few of the secrets of your soul, given only to me,
Leaving me to question whether I deserve them.