I never knew you personally,
All I know about you ... are
From the stories I've read,
From the movies I've watched,
But you have captured
My lonely romantic heart.
You made me fall in love with you,
From a far with your glittering smile,
Watching you made people happy.
You've been a symbol of love for me.
Why the hate now?
Is this how love and hate collide?
I once heard a wise man say,

"Forgive them for they don't know
what they're doing."

Are they going blind for the love
That they don't know about?
So many questions in my mind,
So many are unanswered.
What's the point of all this?

There’s a sway to the way you move
darling, like pieces falling into puzzled
places, a song in your hips and a soul in your
breast, in your chest, on your
mind;

Let the color roll on out of you, like the
waves that emptied you at home, like the
flare of your skirt and laugh in your
throat, like the vibration of your ribs when you
sing;

Your clothes are just as much skin as they are
salvation, as they are an invitation, incantation,
invocation, of all the ways you lift your body towards
the sun; towards the sky;

To the fairest;

To the wave of your body, to the pieces you’re
missing, to the way you love like motion is
emotion, like freedom is a right, like there is
nothing you can’t do while your heart is still
beating;

To your confidence, your eloquence, the way your
eyelashes fall against your cheeks, how you make
love like a thunderstorm, drink tea like
meditation, dance like honey, laugh like spring is
coming;

To the one who lives and flows and
sings, the one who wears flowers in her
hair, the one who speaks of the end like it’s
the beginning and never learned how to
stop;

Raise a glass;
Break the plinth;
You need no apple to prove your worth.

This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.