do not attend my funeral,
many moons from now,
for i want you to know me for the times we had
when i was laughing and dancing around our kitchen table,
not for how you'd watched me get put into the ground.

i want you to throw my ashes to the wind,
letting them waft as freely as they wish
to every nook and cranny of this earth.
that way, when i am gone,
i will be everywhere,
and you can always have that dimpled smile
playing at your lips wherever you go
with the memories of us and all that we had.

i have always craved a love like that of the fog,
for love among people never suits those like me.
i am an ocean trapped within a set of bones
unwilling to let me free;
jailed, misunderstood by the simplicity
of average bodies and frames
and shallow minds and ideas.
i am the blue sea in a skin bursting at the seams
with thoughts and subtle grace
that only appears as chaos above
and darkness from the depths at which they swim.
an acquired taste, i am unlovable,
for i hold the weight of countless ships on my shoulders,
but also the weight of the drowned in my heart.

i am the most beautiful violence, the most deadly benevolence;
an eloquence of earthy tongue not many understand.
the fog is my beloved code that orders the confusion
and assures me, even for just a moment,
that i am lovable like the rest.
for the fog kisses my lips with gentleness that seems
idiosyncratic amongst my battlefield of
sunken ships and lonesome hidden remnants of better times.
it shelters me, engulfing me in soft caresses
and breezy whispers; tearing away my stormy facade
with the most ethereal efficiency.

however much i may toss and roar and kick,
the fog stays and there and listens, watches.
it does not dare to change me,
but it lingers in its soft, chilly presence
until I have calmed myself.
i am never sad when it does fade away,
trailing wispy fingers along me as it does.
for my love, the fog, never dares to go
until even the tiniest phantom of the storm has passed
and the sun is beaming down upon me again.

t'was when tears stung my eyes like the harsh wind outside
that i knew she was just a passerby;
a leaf from the tree so worriedly looking in at me
blown and lifted away.

t'was within the pages of my favorite book
that i fought my worst war;
my memories of her were rekindling to an inferno
but fading with the words on the paper.

t'was her, always her,
that saved me.
t'was her name for me,
"moquino,"
that i want on my headstone
just as,
"sofia,"
was printed on hers.

t'was her, always her,
that took a part of me
when she left,
for t'was her and only her
that was me.

should stars like tears
fall to my feet,
i shall look up for damage done,
for eyes like mine
from which beauty may shine
simply seem to know none.

it never matters
how many odds
are against you
unless
you, too, are an odd
against yourself

maybe the stars
aren't people
who just simply,
"died."
maybe the stars
are the ones
who died,
but then pleasantly defied
the gravedigger when he tried
to put them in the ground.
and so they rose, rose, rose,
up, up, up,
until all they could do
was sweetly smile
and innocently blink
at that poor gravedigger
that just tried to do them in.
if that is the case,
maybe i stride to be a star
at least in death,
if not in life.
and maybe,
just maybe,
the whole
entire
world
should take our stars' advice.

she wrote
on her hands
so she wouldn't forget things
like she forgot that
someone acting like they love you
doesn't mean they want something from you.

why am
i so passionate
about everything
i do?
the answer
to your question
lies among the mounds of things
i have lost
to be passionate about.