I think that you only care about the relationship you have with flames and desperation.

You told me once that you got so high off a blunt that you floated up into the sky and tapped danced with Jesus on a cloud.  When I inquired about his appearance, you lite a match off your shoe and nonchalantly said that he looked like the love child of Patrick Swayze and the curly haired Jonas Brother.

I hid your demons under the broken steps that you used to climb to catch the morning train, as I know that you would rather die that feel that suffocated once again. Of course, I still watch you fill your lungs with smoke, but your mother sighs and whispers that you have been improving. I choke on the air you breathe.

You are dying fast, yet this doesn't seem to bother you in the slightest, and you would rather lay in bed and watch your ceiling fan that climb out the window and see the sky. In your defense, the fan is a nice shade of blue, but the morning light is my preference.

You disappeared for a week in July and were labeled a missing person by the government. After you showed up on my doorstep half drunk and *****, I couldn't bare to tell you that I was so relieved that you were gone. I let you inside anyway, because seeing your brown puppy dog eyes makes me wish that I could save you.

I am watching you destroy yourself, and you don't even have the decency to remember my name.