There must be times when you hurt more than others, because some nights you run me through all your old wounds at once. You plunge me down, yank me up, brief immersions into this death, that argument, the first night, the last night. It’s as if you’re urging, Remember this? And this? And this? You must remember all of it, every detail, every second, you must preserve them all, remember, remember! Do you really think I could forget any of it, though? Or do you just need someone in which to spill it over sometimes to ease your own burden? I don’t mind either way. I’ve cried your tears and choked on your last breaths; I’ve sat up with you at night as you fought withdrawal or overdose. Your pain and I are old friends, and I can always make time for a friend.