I was the paper to his pen, when the ink would pour all his heartaches and bullcrap.
I was the shoulder for his tears, when his beautiful, lonely eyes would cry out everything that his mouth couldn't.
The inhaler to his asthma attacks, always prepared for his outbursts, his hurtful words when he felt like the world was closing in on him and he couldn't breathe.
Many roles I had to play, and there were even more parts I wanted to for him. He knew all these very well.
I only yearned for one thing--reciprocation.
Where do I go for my heartaches and bullsht? Where do I weep my heart out? Would I have him as my breather when it's my turn to suffocate?
It was a flat no, for I was only a friend.
