They said your name on the announcements this morning, but you weren't around to hear it.  
They spoke it just like anyone else would, but the tone they had was all wrong.  
The curves in the letters of your name -much like the curves of your hourglass figure- did not drip off the announcer's tongue like they should have.  
They were summoned from the front of their brain rather than the inkiest depths of their heart.  
They said your name flat, grim and thin like dull graphite.  
They read you prayer, but I'm not quite sure what it contained, because the moment they spoke your name on the announcements this morning, the floor rushed up and up and up until the crack of my head met the vanilla scrubbed tile.  
The room blurred and the room buzzed and the announcer continued to talk in his unsharpened pencil rasp, and I hoped and hoped and hoped some more that they played our song at your burial.