The acne on your back and the scars on your knees and the butter on toast you eat while sat on the porch looking out at the sea wishing for something more. The little hairs on your arms and the even littler hairs on your upper lip that stir so invisibly as your heart beats and thumps and drops a thousand times a minute as you think about what went wrong and if he still feels the same way about you just like he used to. And then as the wind kicks up trash and the birds swoop down to pick up scattered crumbs and seeds, your heart rises once again. As easy as that, you come back to life as greedy plump gulls swoop from the sky snatching food from the hands of those that walk head down and lost in the realisation that tomorrow is just an idea and the dreams they keep inside will remain caged until they die. Those gulls, they look at you and swallow their food. They fly the way you wish you could fly before diving into the ocean in a kamikaze deathwish only to re-emerge seconds later acting as if such a feat were no big deal. Such beauty. Such wonder. Those painted toenails of yours that match the colours of the rainbow. Those whiskers that keep your scent like a blanket. A blanket like the one my grandmother wrapped me in that time I suffered a stomach ache that seemed to last for weeks on end. The doctors went on to diagnose me with some illness or other, but that’s neither here nor there. The blanket still exists, though. I keep it safe and sound in a box beneath my bed. Your seaside arms. Your pastry taste and the look in your eyes that tells me I know what it means to never need to love another. And then here come the clouds and here comes the rain but as the rest dart for cover, you sit there all the same. One day, you’ll be just another grain of sand on a beach, and all the love you had to give will be as lost as those faces that came and went without ever touching your soul. It’s funny and it’s sad. It’s so desperately painful and yet all you can do is turn your face to the sky so thankful that you have this moment, this moment when change, belief and faith dance in the palm of your ageing hand.