I sit, watching him drink even though he’s wasted.
Blotchy skin, red and damp, and the slick guitar strummed under slurring words.
When I was younger, I enjoyed this, he was goofy then, but now I look and see him for what he is. I understand.
Fuck, I understand.
Our eyes meet, His, hollow and dim.
Behind the blotchy skin, past the damp hair and the mumbling lyrics, I see his corpse, the death of the man I knew.
He sits in front of me, rotting away as he eats himself alive from the inside. A maggot.
We didn’t break eye contact until he began to sway to the chords he improvised.
I wish I never saw him like this, I wish I never knew.
I was forced to trade my hero for a ghost. The hollow shell of the person I wanted to be.
I don’t cry for him, I know now that he was never great.
“You know, don’t you.” A disappointed slur broke me, and the guitar stopped
“You know,” the words repeated, and there was more finality this time. Resignation.
He takes another sip,