I'm sorry.

We sat in your kitchen & we talked.
“Remember when we used to be best friends?”, I asked.
“Yes”, you said.
“We were a good match”, I said. I believed it, too. I believe that we were the best friends each other could have.
We needed each other.
“Yeah, we were”, you said.
“Why are you doing all this to yourself?”, I asked.
“Doing what?”, you asked.
“You’re smoking, John. You’re smoking & you’re drinking & I know you’re doing other stuff too. Why’re you doing it?”, I asked.
You shrug your shoulders.

I want to take the cigarette box that I know is in your pocket & I want to throw it away, only, see, I know that wouldn’t do any good.
An addiction is an addiction & throwing away a box of cigarettes isn’t going to do anything to help it.

I shake my head & look at you. You won’t look at me.
I wonder if you’re embarrassed.
I wonder if know you’re hung over.

I want to scoop you out of this little hole you’ve dug yourself because, can’t you see that I still love you?

You were like my brother & you were my best friend. You were my best friend. You were my only friend for years & years & I know I was yours too, so why can’t you go back to being that boy?
I hate this boy you’ve become. You’re dragging yourself around the house & you’re failing out of high school, dear. You’re not going to graduate. You’re not going to go to college & you’re going to be a deadbeat & I wish I didn’t have to say these things but you’re killing yourself & your mother & your brother are just sitting there watching & I’m halfway across the country. Your arms are thin when you give me a hug goodbye. Everything about you is thin. A tight squeeze & then I’m off. I’m not going to see you for another year. I probably won’t even see you then. But, well, it’s not like you care, anyway.