I appreciate everything you do, you know. But we’re different, you and me. You still have somewhere to go to, and I’m just someone you met at this corner smoking all his worries away who’s never leaving this spot. This spot where we talked about how the skies here are so unusually grey. And the tears you shed after you were freed from your hell, followed by your smile after the cigarettes settled in your chest. You will always be my light in this bleakness, but you can never be with this shit. Because I am sick, and I think I will always be.
