I.
"When you die," you always told me, "there will be bright shining lights, poetic lines, fading music and angels who cry."

You also told me once that unicorns can fly and that
Elvis Presley is alive,
the earth is bigger than the sun and
poetry without rhyme can't be done.

II.
Once I made a list of things I wanted to do before I'd die, but I could never think of anything I really wanted.
Instead I wrote you love-poems all the time to hide them in your coat,
and you never read one;

once you told me to fuck off and die instead.

III.
I used to keep on writing these goodbye-notes and 'see-you-in-heaven'-poems, but most of them
ended up like an old John Lennon-song,
or rotting in the corners of my wardrobe.

But this is the last one,
this is the last one.