It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness. Floating, almost impossible to hold for more than a instant as it drifts by, unexpected on the breeze. Resting by your shoulder and singing, then away again when you try and grasp it. Disappears as it chooses, moves on. Nothing to chafe against as with pain, no anchor like misery, no broken pieces of tragedy to clasp in your hands and rebuild. Just the elation of life: the promise that you will wake up each morning to a new world of unending possibilities: hot coffee, warm feet; loving even the darkest of corners or the most neglected of hearts. Yet around you it oozes out of your finger tips into everything you touch, irresponsibly you share. Into the small of backs or the creases between fingers, straight through to the bone. Credit is not taken by you, in the same way the sun takes no credit for it’s warmth, or the moon for the stars which we sit under on clear nights with a blanket and tea. But still continue to hold and cherish them, and in that way be cherished, too.