When I was young I fell in love with the girl that lived next door to me. I would write her poems and leave them in her letterbox. I wrote her poems about the colour of her hair, her eyes and the way she looked when she was sleeping; how cramped it was in her wardrobe. She never acknowledged me and then one day she died. Maybe it was her arthritis, maybe it was the cataracts, or maybe it was because she was 112 years old. It doesn’t matter. All I know is that I was 23 years old and heartbroken. My mum made me hot chocolate and a warm bath and that kinda helped.