Raw and uncut, to the bearest of bones.
I am an open novel and full of old woes.

I crack under pressure and wear my heart on my sleeve, I cringe with every soul that I too must grieve.

I am the clouds in the sky that always bring shade
And I try to soften the touch of a blade.

I want to be everything anyone has ever wanted
But I fear instead, my heart may be haunted.

The world tastes of sweet strawberries picked from the yard, yet I know I am too shy to pluck the right card.

I weep for the sorry and smile for the brave,
But I fear one day that I might misbehave.

Please forgive me for the changing of this tune,
You see I only hoped it wasn't too soon.

I ripped out the pages from my own written works, in hopes that I too could change my old quirks.

I pleasure the living and bury the dead, and I feel I might soon just lose my poor head.

His name was Sam.

He looked so grown up as he walked away into the night. His under groomed shaggy summer struck hair glued down around his head from the warm pre-fall rain.
He wasn't the one I remembered, but rather the one I forgot. I couldn't help but shed a tear as he sashayed down the street, draped in his long and worn-out tailored coat.

I don't know how this was Sam.

It seemed wrong to just let him leave the way he did. But I think he lost his way. He'll come back when he rediscovers that lanky boy with an obsession for finding beauty in that which didn't exist.
He was the captain of the playground, the president of imagination.

I can't stop thinking about Sam.

I just sat in my car with my window down and my hair the way he always liked.
Somehow it wasn't enough, and somehow it was too much. He needed a reminder of who he used to be. But maybe this was part of growing up.

He was Sam. And I was his.

I kissed goodbye to the wind and hoped it reached him in time.
I lit my last cigarette and just waited.
All I ever did was wait, and it was pointless.
He'll never be back again.
Sam was a misguided free spirit.
Or maybe he had found himself.

His name was Sam.
And he was gone.
For good this time.

And there he sat with the window open and his big heart, closed.
The stars were somehow dimmer, the moon just a speck in the overbearing sky.
Someday, somehow this will be better.
The music stopped, and the laughter from the children out on the streets was barely a whisper.
His sigh was carried out into the night.
There was something about this simple whimper that made the night go on forever.
And he just sat there with nothing but tears to accompany him as he smoked his Cuban cigar.
It was over.
And all that was left was what had been.