I was never fond of alcohol. I guess you could say that I was afraid of it, or rather, that I was afraid of its side effects. I love you, but I am afraid of your whiskey breath. It turns your words into stones, your brutal honesty catapulting off of your tongue.
You are dancing across a frozen lake, and I am calling your name from the land, but your voice has always been so much louder than mine. I am walking on thin ice, tip-toeing my way towards you.
My outstretched hand is taken as an intent of violent reprimand, and your voice is getting louder. If you fall through the ice, then I will try my hardest to pull you out.
But we both know that I lack the strength, and I know that you lack the will.
You will tell me to run back to the edge,
but who am I if I do not care for you?