This one fucked me up to write.

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She 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.

I write pretty words and sometimes sell things.

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