Steph wrote this for me

I had this friend
I don’t remember when
He was a wanderer,
He traveled all over.
He played the harmonica
And sometimes worked at coffee shops.
He’d read large books that made no sense,
And speak of how the world was so fragile, and had grown so thin.
He had a tattoo of a symbolic goat on his arm
And on the other the words Awake.
He got it when he finally realized he had been living his whole life asleep.
The seams of our friendship were fringed and unraveled at times.
And sometimes we would lose ourselves amongst the rapture of lives waves.
I will never forget him
And the music in his car.
The fragmented sentences that made us who we are.
Where did he go?
I’m not quite sure.
Will I see him again?
I hope so.