Let us talk of broken hearts and the tiny hands of children that cannot hold the shells they gather in the shallows, nor keep their castles from the tide. The lights of carnivals, the rides etched upon the bruised skyline, the boats moored like quiet birds on the dark water, the family tents that dot the foreshore making light the night-time swallows have all been taken by the lines the wind makes in the sand. Time weighs heavy on then breaks the horizon and the sea rolls on. Standing here on this beach, I can almost see the lost parts of me: the child who pushed the board across the waves and bought the day’s bold promise; the teen who took the girl down to the edge and eased her buttons free. Hearts are broken by the things they cannot carry, by the fullness that they cannot hold, by the unexpected change that gathers in the clouds and falls down like rain to run in rivulets eating tiny fissures in the threaded muscle there. I have come this far and the morning like a girl I loved has left me, but I can taste her skin and everything it was ever dipped in. This is what we have: our children and our plans and our skipping hearts full to the breaking twice, thrice more than can truly be borne.