He leaned on me. Head back. and asleep. We were high. We were almost always high. It just seemed right to updo your experiences with people(just him) that make you feel as if you weren't really alive. Chemical interventions seemed sort of harmless after the sort of unintentional affect he had on me. Only when he was telling me about his dreams to nowhere, and his love for something intangeable were I somewhat superior. I could still see realism, and how dark his hair was, and the number of cigarrettes we ate but could not really afford. He was lost, always consumed and content, and knowing. He spoke of far away places, places I truthfully would only want to be if he was taking me. I don't believe I was in love in him. Just sometimes, when it's really cold outside, or when we were really tired from staying mad awake all night after a gig, or when now with him humming and me laughing not sure whether I was pulling him in or pushing him off, I wouldn't mind. Maybe it was his tragic, his makeup, his constant slurring that made me less boring. We couldn't settle, I couldn't leave, and he couldn't be it.
He couldn't really be asleep, i'd miss his eyes. Wide-eyed fixed at a state of astonishment. He'd had enough practice. But I couldn't possibly see all of him through his dilated pupils when he was almost never there, so I must have been lying. I can tell myself I was only in love with his eyes.