And I am here, in my hell, staring at that vague ray of light coming out of the dark tunnel. And it becomes brighter as I read poetry in your ear when you're all the way on the other side of the moon.

Our love story passed so fast that a star saw us pass by and wished upon us.

Good morning my sweet girl is time for you to take a shower and cry the rest of your heart out because of that guy who isn't worth half of a tear. Open the faucet completely so your parents can't hear your hopeless cry.
The shower is over, step out of it and dry every single part of your body, including your soul. I'm not sure if a towel will be enough to do so.
Then put on your mask of shades and dusts on your face, that one you call makeup. Put it in, become someone else. Some shades over here, a little bit of lipstick and voilá! No trace of a tear.
Now the most important part, smile, my dear. Smile as if you were truly happy. Pretend that you don't give a **** about anything or anyone. Pretend that how you look expresses your inside. Prettend that you never cry, that your life is amazing and that you're a bad girl.
Lie, lie to everybody. Lie to your mom about not wanting to go to school anymore. Lie to your friends about that guy who's crying for you. Lie to the world... But you can't lie to yourself. And for you that part is  the worst.

If you've ever stayed up until 4 am,
you're either lonely or in love.
And I don't know which one is worse anymore.

But she’s my north and south and
east and west.
She’s that first spring day,
and last autumn night.
She’s sunset,
and dawn.
She’s the cool rain in a hot summer day,
and a warm sunray in the coldest winter morning.
She’s the petrichor and the breeze of the sea.
She’s the biggest expression of love.
She’s herself.
But again.
She’s not mine.

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.