It's sad!
It's sad how much you've changed. It's sad how much you've cut off fine bits and rough pieces of you, shedding out the tiniest strength that makes you you.
It's sad the way you now set your mouth in a fashion that makes the mind picture a hen pecking grains of fresh or dry corn breakfast for her chicks; how you, not only break up the strongest strings of freshness, but, tear the most special page of goodness that satisfies your kind soul in your darkest moments.
It's not only sad, my dear, it's funny.
It's funny how fast you forget that life is an open book, and one decides not just what is written therein, but with what ink one decides to write: pepper red, turquoise green, sea blue, rainbow violet, rose pink, etc.
Your pages are empty. Or, put more appropriately, your pages are full of empty stomach-size stupidity that makes a diarrhea-sick child smile in the pool of its own mess.
I'm surprised. I'll say I'm really surprised how age form clouds and cotton buds of dark blockage in your once cob-web free soul.
You laugh?
You laugh at your own jokes.
You stare at the carcass in the mirror and laugh?
You've strayed so far from love that you do not know the smell of the rose garden you once tamed.
Samuel, I knew you. I know you. I still do. Even if I cannot say for sure what you've turned into, I still do know the Samuel I fell for some years ago. The soft spoken, calm headed and lovely, cute, little thing.
I'm going to wait; just wait till you come around.
Yours truly,
