I could still feel the cold metal railings of the balcony on my back as we let jazz music spill out of our friend’s apartment windows that night in January. I was an inch away from death, literally, beside a fire escape 50 feet from the ground.

I never liked us together when we’re sober so it was a good thing that we’re already closing in on being dead drunk. It was the perfect music to hold hands. That’s why I asked you if it was cold because my hands were and if you held them you’d actually know how cold they really were. And so you did. You even told me your hands were colder. I didn’t tell you I didn’t care whose hands were colder. You *****, all I cared about was being able to hold your hand for five seconds. It was enough. We were drunk after all. It was enough.

I was already forgetting so many details. I was already forgetting those nights with jazz music and you and stuff that didn’t really matter. So when someone asked me if I still saw you, I really didn’t know what to answer. I never really saw you, in all contexts of the idea. I felt everything I felt was imaginary. Nothing had enough anchor.

Some nights, I still feel the metal railings on my back. The cold lingers on. Until it reaches my hands. But I don’t care. And that’s enough.