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.