thirty something:

Take a drag,

long dark.

Warm.

I remember the heat.

The haze, the shimmer.

The taste of cold vodka,

ice that burns.

All that blood.

No sense at all.

We’ve been at war so long,

who even remembers peace?

I felt good though, half-drunk.

Thinking about the past.

You were still there,

I suppose I was too.

That hazy afternoon in July.

The sirens, the broken glass.

It still stings.

I suppose you can heal.

Just take your finger out.

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