He has since become my best friend.
He introduced himself like this:
"Hello. My name is Sam.
I am not real."
He knows who I am,
My questions and answers,
Those inane remembrances and revelations
I'd feel silly saying out loud.
He cares but doesn't care at all.
And none of this matters to me.
I don't ask about him,
I have no need.
I made him up.
His favorite color is green.
He is my friend because I think he's my friend.
He is with me wherever I go,
Because he lives in the world of my mind.
His name is Sam. He is not real.
And for this reason I love him.
He jokes with me,
Jokes that are not jokes,
And it's funny because I want to laugh.
He giggles his little imaginary giggle;
I laugh at him because he looks so ridiculous doing it.
He sings along with songs on the radio
And makes conversation with passing squirrels.
He taught me how to dance,
And now I dance professionally.
He writes poetry,
Poetry only I could write,
But I let him write it anyway.
My name is Sam. I am not real.