I was one and twenty.
Then I became one and thirty.
In a couple of years, I'll be one and forty.
I've exceeded my ideal life expectancy.
Way overdue.
Still the old me, still whimsical, still impulsive and still silly.
Sam is not, though.
Same is good.
Sane, according to social norm, is also good.
Again I heard the name.
Thought I've forgotten that very name.
The tall one with a bouquet of roses.
Once, just once...
I was the target of his attention.
The recipient of that gorgeous bouquet.
Then I became others' object of attention.
Stumbled, wailed, dried the tears.
The little girl became little woman, then the twenty something.
And now the thirty something.
Once we adored each other.
Once we were both sane.
Too sane to get away from the conditioned minds and be reckless.
So here we are.
Same old Sam; same old mess; old sane me.
All tears, in sheer sanity.
Little me, belittled me.
Young me, lovely me, wrinkled me, withered me.
Sam and me, sad me, sammy, save me, thus said I.