DO YOU REMEMBER

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Do you remember how the people were dancing when you turned to me and said that it felt like we were stuck in the crook of some river or a field of wheat getting flattened by the wind? Remember the tingle in our spines as that cut and powdered cocktail of drugs rushed to the front of our skulls and cleared the spot between our eyes? Remember not knowing what exactly it was we had just taken, and the joke you made about it: what is it you said?—that the fine line between fun and addiction is the one we just snorted? Was that it, or was it not even meant to be a joke? It was too dark to see the expression drawn on your face. Do you remember all that, or is it just me? Do you remember feeling lost and seeing the moonlight spill into the room through the drawn blue curtains?

Do you remember how crowded that little apartment felt? And how we kept leaning into each other like two old trees. How we knew it would end and how we knew the same thing about us. But do you remember how that didn’t stop us? Do you remember eventually joining the rest of the sloppily drunk people on the tiny dance floor and the crumpled up beige rug that kept turning and twisting on the hard wood? Do you remember how fucking high we were? How high we felt? How fleeting it all was?

Sometimes I wonder where you are now, and if you’re okay. Sometimes I wonder if you remember it all, that taste in our mouth and the dancing, like I still do.

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