I wrote this for you a long time ago on a coffee stained napkin, after you left me, full of love, lingering in a cafe.

"For you, in all your follies and faults and the way they make you so perfect for me.
For you, in the moments that linger in the vehemently insignificant corners and corridors of things, as if drifted of their own grandure.
For you, for the words that spill to the floor and the brilliant way you understand the deafening silence that follows.
For you, for your supernovas and clever shades, for your daylight smiles and nighttime skins.
For you, for your familiarity and the impossible truths that stand as martyrs to say that I have loved you before.
For you, despite the treachery and quiet sinister fun of the world.
For you, for making me so terribly scared of dying."
Yet here I am, in your wake, so full of so many thoughts and demons. Know that I have died, that I have loved and lost with equal measure.

it's funny how mom complains of me using my cellphone at dinner,
but she doesn't stop me.
it's funny how my math teacher said i have a bad attitude,
but he didn't explain the excersises to me because i didn't had the book.
it's funny how last year the whole class hated the priest,
but now he's dead everybody thinks of him as a saint.
it's funny how that sophomore boy used to talk to me all the time,
but now claims he doesn't know who i am.
it's funny how much i wanted to go out as a kid,
but now my body hurts by the idea of getting out of bed.

hope it stills funny when i'm dead.