I’d be a fool to think 
that it wouldn’t be problematic
to become emotionally attached to the
addict living on the other side of my apartment wall.

but worse than a fool;
I’d be a liar if I said
I don’t worry about him every single day.

I can hear your squeaky bathroom door shut, footsteps, drawer slam, microwave beep, hacking cough, door open when you leave for your hourly cigarette, door close when you come back, door lock, dry cough, music blasting cause you’re angry, t.v. on, light switch off.

and what I can’t hear, I can still picture, you lighting your pipe, your glazed eyes, you snorting, swallowing, dropping on your tongue; your wide smile, dimples, hair when it’s messy or pushed back; your tears, suppressed emotions, self-medication.

and what I can’t see, I can still smell, your distinct scent, **** mixed with tropical febreeze, 3 am chicken ranch pizza;
or taste, your lips, stale cigarettes, spiced *** on your tongue, fragile skin on your neck.

or still feel your silk hair, velvet skin, cotton bedsheets, the draft that leaks in through the AC unit above your bed, your touch, heartbeat, spine poking out of your back, cold shaky hands, heart drop, goosebumps, heart skipping beats, sick stomach, butterflies, my cold shaky hands, anxious worry, your words, the absence of your hand on my side…

the absence of you;
you as in the person I saw deep within those sap green eyes
in those moments I saw life in them for a only split second.
those few times you actually showed a human side of yourself;
a side of you that spoke apart from the drugs and beside the alcohol,
a side that wanted me.

I know I won’t be the one to save you,
considering that when I said
“I want to help you”
you replied
“I don’t need help” in-between sips of whisky,
before you took out out your pipe, pushed back the
vulnerable boy living inside of you
under debris of
methamphetamines, *******, liquor, LSD, etc….

how could I ever believe
that a boy lost in a dysfunctional version reality
could love me more
than he loves his drugs?

maybe next year I’ll live in a place
where the walls aren’t so thin
and I’m not in love with my neighbor,
or anyone who can love his bottle, pills, powder, and pipe more than me.