If you loved him, you would’ve left.
If you had been there with the pink flushed from his cheeks and his hands trembling, you would’ve left. His eyes bloodshot and his fridge empty. His teeth black and his heart racing. If you had been there with the ash on the carpet and empty bottles on the floor, you would’ve left.
But instead you were in the kitchen. Burning something over the stovetop turned up so high, the whole house was in the clouds. You were daydreaming to the soundtrack of his giddy laughter. His eyes so glazed, they looked in love.
You whispered to him words pieced together like a collage to show your heart and he picked them up to rearrange them the best he could to show you his.
You should’ve left.
When you had been there with his fever running over the hills and the rhythm running out of the blues, you should’ve left. His cheeks tear-stained and shirt soaked. His mind crowded but his bones bare. When you had been there with his head in your neck, etching muffled cries on your skin, you should’ve left.
But instead you were in his bed. Building castles into the ceiling – but concrete only stretches on a trip.
Laying there with his pulse in his mouth. His entire world teetering on the edge of your name on his tongue. You nursed him until the symptoms grew warm.
If you loved him, you should’ve left.
Because he, the addict.
But you, the habit;
the high he craves from which he’ll never recover.