Six years ago, we used to party together. He, freewheeling through his life, careless and free, me, a squarish drunk trying to fight insomnia and depression, two souls who probably found each other at some bash at three in the morning.
Comin' home to fight cancer, said a short line I got less than two months ago. What cancer?, I replied few weeks later when I found the message. He did not live to read it.
Dressed all in black, staring at the coffin. And all I can think of is — too young, too fucking young.
Those were the heydays, sharing money, each other's apartments, alcohol, drugs and experience. Talking shit and chicks, somehow missing that we were going through the time of our lives. Everything was real, everything was possible.
Dressed all in black, squeezing a tiny little bottle of Jim Beam. He's still here with me.
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