I don't remember last night

I remember last night. I’m not sure if it’s literally last night, or if it was another last night after one more next morning. The Jack Daniel’s bottle, that had burnt my throat as I took sip after sip thinking about you, laid on the foot of my bed where you used to sit watching me fall asleep before kissing my forehead and whispering good night.
I remember last night, I was with you. You were with me. We were alone together in a world that we made up of sheets and chairs. It’s so clear. So vibrant. Causing me to shiver, shake, and panic. Collapse.
I remember last night. We drank from the same tequila bottle, passing it back and forth, venting all about life’s miseries and our dreams.
I remember last night, you were an enigma to me, and I was a big fat question to you. And despite that, we laid down together under the moon that was sewn into the sky with clouds adding a chill to the design.
I’m not sure if I remember last night. It’s all blurry and achy.
The chemicals that burnt into my blood stream have caused me to forget, or have caused me to not have a chance to remember.
I don’t remember last night.