traces of the answer…
You were far too drunk to light your own cigarette, and despite my hopeless appeals that those little buggers would be the death of you, you grabbed my lighter-wielding hand and brought it up a few inches from your face- and who would I be to deny you this?
You breathed in the fumes, and blew them into my face when I told you that each breath was hurting you. It was the most cinematic gesture you could afford at the time.
The smoke cleared and I saw your grin. And then I realized that I had everything I needed to keep me alive. And that all the friends that had abandoned me, that had given up my friendship for a minuscule or a monumental reason weren’t factors in our equation at all. Because nothing could hurt me, and I would always be the one to end up in the higher place.
