Sam did not want to live any more and it has nothing to do with me.

Sam did not want to live any more and it has nothing to do with me.

Sam did not want to live any more and it has nothing to do with me, but I can't help but go back and back and back and regret what I did and what I did not do.

I know it is illogical. Sam is dead. Nothing will bring him back.

There is not a thing I can say or do to change that.

I'm not a saint. I am not the Messiah.

But I am in anguish because I think Sam would be alive if I had said yes when he asked me to marry him.

But I laughed instead, and said, "God, Sam! We'd probably kill each other."

And his house was so chock full of mementos, frogs, and Winnie the Poohs, model airplanes, photos, band flyers, guns, and guitars. Where was there room for me?

He couldn't even part with the dead flower arrangements in his hallway, and I hate dead flowers with a passion.

Sam was a stubborn pack rat, buzzing with a boistrous love of life.

I am equally as stubborn and need empty space and silence.

I made myself remember as much as I loved him, how crucial it was for me to be able to run home to my sparse quiet.

Sam said we could make it work, but I was too afraid.

I love you, Sam.

I'm sorry how it turned out.

I wish, oh I wish you were here.