Slow black moments

I have died many times before
and will do so many times still.
While each time it becomes no easier
slowly, I have gained a new friend,
Always there, but never otherwise,
during moments
of weakness.
Still, slowly,
I have sought
to leave it behind.
Yet still he appears,
In those black moments,
at my stoop:
A bottle in his hand
and a greeting in his throat.