If you are not an addict it’s difficult to understand. How one minute you’re pouring water, the next there’s whisky in your hand. I drive home from work and stop in a coffee shop, pick up a coffee and make my way off. He drives home from work and stops in a pub, picks up a pint and forgets how to love. He comes home wide-eyed and restless in nature, And I know the man getting into my bed is a stranger. Someone who, up until recently I knew, But then he re-filled his blood stream replacing it with toxicity. And although he makes it home to me, I still share a complicity. I try not to be anguished and it take it so personally. After all when I close my eyes he’s still the only one I see. I just wish I could cure him but I’m starting to think I’m incapable, That no amount of loving someone can make an addiction escapable.