The ripples in the water
Your hand dips into it
I look beside me
You're not there

I welcome nightmares
Like the sunlight in day
There I see your face
Losing light in your eyes

Tomorrow is a dreadful friend
Each time he takes away
Something of you
Something of memory

Your smell
Your smile
Your touch
Your love

I don't want to forget
Let the rain fall
Let the skies darken
Just don't make me forget

Let the water ripple in my heart
Let your hand dip into its depths again
Just don't make me forget
Just don't make me forget

First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter.
I'm probably not fighting it.
It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade.

Second, keep my death off the internet.
Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions.
Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long.

Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot.
You are not to allow this.
A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving.

Not permitted at the funeral:
Gerber daisies
poetry
blue jeans
any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.")

Encouraged at the funeral:
Hugs - everyone must hug
lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?)
And make sure they bury me in the blue dress.

Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring,
make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building,
or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade,
or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason.

Remember me as I was.

lonely people do lonely things
they make homes out of
empty theatres
while they hold
an invisible hand that belongs to
an invisible body that sits
in the seat next to them.

lonely people have lonely habits
they roam the corridors of empty malls,
finding themselves seeing
an entirely different person
in each reflective surface they pass.

lonely people hide in lonely spaces
like the bottom of an empty wine bottle,
or the inside of an out of tune grand piano,
gnawing on the strings and getting them caught
between each bone of the ribcage waiting
for someone to come along
and pluck them just so they can
call it music.

lonely people fall in love with lonely things,
like the inconsistency of the moon
and the overwhelming light of the sun,
getting caught between which one is better to be
in love with,
over which one will keep
the loneliest heart of all
the most
safe.

I am a cereal killer
Devouring Life is a thriller

Snap, crackle, and pop
I make the flakes drop

Stalking salubrious crunch
Murdered for breakfast and lunch

My appetite for Trix is voracious
For my Lucky Charms, I am gracious

Mud & Bugs haunt my soul
Desecrating Grape-Nuts whole

Yea, I'm Nut n' Honey and Cocoa Hoots
Krispy Kritter Krave Fruit Loops

I'm a cereal killer
Yet a community pillar

Can't comprehend why it's a crime
Unrepentant, I'll massacre cereal every time

You might have the prettiest face in the world.
It's them lips that has me hypnotized.
Maybe I love kissing them.
Maybe it because I love caressing them.

You might have the most attracted legs in the world.
It's them eyes above your gorgeous nose that has me memorized.
I can stare in them thousands of times.

Not because of my reflection.
Which I constantly see.
But because I see your love for me.

It's there.
You care.
It's there.
And it's real.

Now about that pretty face.
Which we all know is about your personal taste.
You're the one with the best.
Even if I'm the only one to confess it.

It's true.
That in my eyes.
There's no one prettier of more beautiful then you.

If there is.
Then she's not the object or any kind to me.

It's true.
It's real.
I truly, truly, truly do love you.