This one fucked me up to write.
Her and I didn't end in a horrible derailing crushing wreck that left both of us bloody and grabbing for our throats to check if we were still breathing –– it was more like a slow dance.
We were holding each other closely, swaying to Cigarettes After Sex and I decided to gently let go of her hand and she didn't make the slightest attempt to grab it back.
And in a cynical yet poetic way, this is what loving in a broken generation haunted by dreams feels like –– a slow dance that gets slower and slower until the music stops and someone lets go.
By Cole Schafer.
P.S. One day these one minute writings will be a big book called “One Minute, Please.” Can I let you know when that day comes? You can say yes, here.