And there she was; seated in the centre of his palm. So lovely and full of colour. Yet marred to her bones. Her every sinew grew heavier with the dull ache of insecurity. Bemused, his shallow eyes grew ever darker. The reflection showed a face that should not have been his. Like a glass moth her delicate frame rose and fell with her breath. The palm, once so inviting, so loving, was thin and gaunt. For a time it was if their dusty, lonely bones dosed against each other. Fearful fluttering rotted her beautiful persona from the inside. She was so wonderful, but now just a shadow. He knew not what to do. The palm tilted and down she fell. Down into oblivion. All he had to remember her was a vial of spilt tears.

It’s like looking into a kind of wondrous precipice; the future. I’m not quite sure if everyone realises just what it means yet. I’m not afraid, and cannot wait to be exposed to a whole new kind of life, but sometimes it feels like I’m torn between an embrace and a recoil. Not in fear, but rather more a blind stumble into the future. I think I now know who I never want to lose touch with. It’s ever so exciting, but at times it feels like a relentless unstoppable behemoth that is pulling us all through into the next stage of life. When all we want to say is: ‘stop, wait, slow down…’