Only the
past is set
in stone,
my friend.

You don't have
to continue
being the
person you
were
yesterday.

I used to say your lips were too small.
but now,
after feeling so many,
I realized yours weren't small.
They were a perfect fit,
like a puzzle piece.

When I die, dear Mother
don't give my body away
to science.

I'd rather have it given away to poetry.

I want people to cut me open
and observe
how my bones were riddled with
melancholic verses of joyful pasts.

They have to see
the scarlet of my blood was the hue
I stole from the sunsets of
wishful thoughts.

Dear Mother,
give my body away
to the art of writing:
for they have to look past
everything they have ever learned.

They must know
of how much I loved and I lost,
and how that made the twine of my ribs
a story to tell.

You fell in love with me.

I just hope you jumped.
Not slipped.