One night you went to your final house party. One last night with disposable cups and bodies finding space where they can, on floors, inside each other.
One morning you had your last cigarette. You told yourself you were an adult now and they were nothing more than a holdover from walking home at 5am barely lucid.
One evening you said goodbye to your Grandmother. She’d wanted to see the beach one last time. You knew she didn’t have long left, but she was so full of life when you hugged her and said goodnight.
And one night, beneath a weeping moon, on the deck we shared, we pressed our lips together one last time.
Recovering 