I dreamt of Sam last night. His hair was still the colour of straw but longer than I’d ever seen it. He had a rough fringe at the front and it reached his shoulders at the back. I wonder if he looks like that now, it’s been years since I’ve seen him. The image was hazy, like a photo filter with a softening 70s colour scheme. He was leaning against the trunk of a gum tree and seemed sad, kind of down and out, and he was wearing the old kind of John Denver glasses he had when I first met him. I have a close up picture of him in those thick metal frames: he is blowing me a kiss, snowy Welsh mountains and his blue hatchback are in the background, his hair is puffed up by the wind and is floating around his face. I want that photo now; I want it on my wall; I want to find the square brown negative, take it to a photo shop and tell them to blow it up as big as they can because when I look at it I know we were happy. But only rockstars and poets hang photos of old lovers on their walls.