sam,

the pale boy with weary eyes,
burdened by his own problematic behaviour,
tall and so very very thin,
so fragile as his slender frame glides through the halls,
blue eyes glint a glare dismissive yet implying,
my inadequacy paling in contrast with his staggering glamour,
he walks with pride yet his confidence is low,
or apparently so,
time stops in the haze of a falsely optimistic,
deeply felt sadness,
as he grieves his own loneliness,
envisioning a woman with effortless charm,
with whom he can sail the galaxies,

but not me,

not ever me,

for I am miserable in aura,
my infuriating lament for contact leaving me baggy-eyed,
painfully stubborn and indignant,
with the petulance of a dying star wishing to leave in style,
yet fading without a trace,
yet I know,

I know,

I know,

how dare I consider this a tragedy,
for cause and effect have struck bad fortune upon me,
sneering upon my pitiable shyness,

no metaphors necessary,

perhaps if I had uttered one sentence,
grimacing through nervous stutters,
at this thought-inducing time of dusk,
where ripples upon the river edging this quaint little town,
reflect the ever-changing gradients of the sky,
a vision of us exchanging cigarettes,
and questioning our purpose in an accidental existence,
would flood the surface of the tranquil water,
as opposed to my desolate dreams,
wherein I remember this cannot be,
and I awaken to my own foolish tears,

we can never be.