To me, he was an idol. I saw him as if he were chiseled in stone in some ancient city, revered by men and women far and wide, as if people came to see him on pilgrimages. In reality, he was enabling my addiction and that made me see him like a hero; I see that now, but couldn’t ever then. He would hand me another glass, another shot, another bottle with generous hands. Always with trimmed nails and smooth skin, his palm would pass mine, and the drink would be with me again. He would watch as I drank, ready to give me another. Yet with love, he was sparse. That was all I really ever wanted from him - to be loved. Even in our last days together, I begged for it, hoped for it, made a fool of myself - as if he were some godly being and not a human being just like me. All that - to never receive it, and to only receive poison in return.