I kissed a boy who tasted like seasalt and strawberries. Accepted his crown of coral and driftwood and watched him float out on the tide. Stay young, they said, as we sat on the back porch amid empty glass bottles and little orange ladybugs. Youth either looks like the berry stains on our chins or the sweat sticking to our collarbones. Dried blood beneath candy-coloured bandaids or mum’s pink daisies in bloom. I thought heartbreak would be dark: a rough, cold blanket like a winter night, not a centrifuge of neon lights that somehow feels eternal.