“I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel…” Your hand is on my thigh as you begin to sing in the dark. I can make out your shape as the blue dawn begins to rise. Your hair is down, it’s long dark curl is merely silhouette. I’m taking the last drags off the joint you hand me. We are in a slur of psilocybin and whiskey. This trip is coming to an end and Leonard comes to your lips, of course it’s Leonard. It’s always the sweet melancholic tunes that are the best to sing while this intoxicated. It’s a reminder that this won’t last forever, that love ends, hearts break and only the lucky ones will know what this feels like for a long time. I will remember what this feels like for a long time. Your hand lingering on my thigh as the world between sober and not starts to congeal back together. I cannot lie, this is the memory I always come back to when people ask me if I still have feelings for you. Of course I do. Just as reliably as you will sing Leonard Cohen or Tom Waits when you are drunk, I will always come back to this memory. I will linger in it for a long time and dissect every moment. I will survey the darkness, the soft sheets, your rough hands, the joint, your voice deep in your chest, the way you sway when you sing in that state. Everytime I recall it, my heart stops, my breath is shallow and I try to bring back that moment. The moment when I was sure you loved me.