Because sometimes 2005 seems like a dream

"What does it feel like when you inject it in your arm?"

You gazed downward just beneath the brim of your hat, feathering the pages of my Plath book between your torn fingers. There was enough time in the silence to come up with a thousand different stories, the gap in your front teeth was visible as you pondered. And in your low awkward voice you told me about heroin; quite possibly more than I wanted to know. Then, reaching in your pocket, the shiny crumbled foil ball containing your weakness emerged, only for a moment because I turned my head.

"You know; my writing changes" as you held it up, I could see it gleaming in my peripheral vision. We locked eyes, I could tell you were attempting to peak my interest. I broke from your gaze and looked out the door. It was 4AM. I got up and walked out of the corridor and down the stairwell. The plants at night smelled sweet. I picked enough Ginko Biloba leaves for both of us even though i knew i was already alone.

Your high-top converse carried you out the door. All that was left were your words, which I've stopped reading years ago. (That's only half true)

The romanticism of running into you again one day plays in my mind like a worn drum, by this time trying to extract wisdom from you would be a silly move.

You're so fucking smart.

A few days later a letter came, you wrote that you wished you had written something that I wrote and gave me such praise and I fell down in my seat, I smiled. I guess it wouldn't have ever worked, us being friends, and it never will.

I kind of wonder if X is still alive, but then again; he never believed in death in the first place.