Happiness is a Warm Drug

She doesn't love you.

So do a line.

She does love you.

So do a line.

Because you can never be together.

The eightball of cocaine I have in my pocket makes my head a little clearer as I walk home and prepare myself for the inevitable. When I walk through my front door- our front door- she's going to be in bed with someone else.

I shouldn't be this calm.

That's the weird thing about love. Your brain rationalizes the craziest things, even if it shouldn't.

Even if you shouldn't love at all.

That's how I felt about the drugs.

And that's how I felt about her.

Both were just chemical, anyway, right? A sore minded fight for some imaginary balance between all the different molecules in my brain.

She really loves you, she just needs to do this.

You're not addicted, you just need it right now.

These kinds of thoughts plague me as I walk toward the door to our little apartment.

His shoes are underneath where we keep our keys, and I suck in a breath. Our bedroom is closed and I hear faint sounds echoing down the hallway.

I want to throw up, or turn around and leave, but all I can do is walk outside.

I cut a line and suck it up, staring at the dark parking lot beneath my balcony.

She's going to regret this, and so will I.

She'll regret not loving me, and I'll regret ever loving her.

I'll regret the drugs too, as much as I love them.

At least all they cost is money.

She cost my heart, and then some.

I guess that's on me, though.

I guess everything is.

I think of her bright, sweet eyes and I wonder if he even knows what he has in his arms. I wonder if she knows I am home.

We were so happy, but happiness doesn't last.

If only love were so fickle.

Real love, I mean, not the kinds of love you see around mostly. Real love doesn't yield, even when it knows better.

It's not addiction, but the way I feel about the coke is the only comparable feeling I know to the way I feel about her. Maybe she's a drug. Maybe she's a cure.

Until then, I'm waiting.