It was not my first time drunk, not even close
but it was the first time that the floor span as a child's spinning top
and faces swam in my too-dark-too-bright-toomuch vision.
It was the first time I lost my footing and my back crashed into the wall sliding down until my knees hit my heaving chest and my palms pressed white against kitchen tile.
It was my first time crying into the shoulder of a boy I don't know, ripping my apple-bruised heart out of my retching throat and pushing it into his ***** numbed hands.

(after that my memories become manufactured by the later retellings of others)

something about the roof shingles being cold against my back but the stars being warmer than my smile ever was. Something about a phone call to a girl I once loved apologising over and overandover for falling for another. Something about a text at 1am that had my cheeks blushing and my stomach clenching convulsively around Gin and Guilt.  

(something more a little something more to drink)

Later, the boy who clumsily cradled my heart and my head in his lap, will tell me that I smiled at him through tingling teeth and told him that I would rather die than wake up in the morning.

The morning sun inaudibly arising,
Yo-yo weather, blue skies and rainclouds,
The familiar view of the long awaited landscape, evoking memories of many a week spent here before,
The warm feeling of - ‘home’
Shadows cast by clouds hovering eerily above a ‘witch’s house’, high on a mountain top,
Two hundred foot drops and winding peaks,
Dancing streams and wide lakes, the deepest shade of blue
Pedestrian cows crossing a motorway bridge,
The timelessness of the ever nearing estuary, lying in wait,
Our second home – the tin house with two doors,
Our place of wild strawberries and happiness and peace.
The estuary sand and the shallow-deep waters, as inviting as ever, gleaming as I walk on by,
The delicate beauty of fresh scented flowers, on a fine summer’s day,
Endless winding roads, following the sun trail, leading to a place far away,
Sheep on the beach, curious and shorn as the evening sun fades peacefully and the serein falls,
Evening serenity and the swell of the incoming tide,
The mystery of the island in the distance, far, far away.
Blankets and dreamscapes and tea in brown mugs,
And dinner cooked on an open fire,
The lights shining in Portmerion at night,
The noceur of the night sky, the silver-white orb, dancing gracefully amongst the stars.