The fireworks grasp despairingly at the night
just before they shatter into a million
little pieces of light.
Like the clasps of lovers, such ecstasy
is determined, yet brief; the summer air
can only bear so much
incendiary tension before it breaks.
He watches the affair with an air
of indifference; cold and vain,
his eyes skim right past the meaning
in simple joy to devour the
greed planted in between
individual intricacies intertwined.
History lights up the sky,
yet all he wants to see is his own reflection.
Such a selfish man, the fireworks do
absolutely nothing for him.
Yet he cannot restrain the lyrical lilt
of rapturous children, haloed in the
night like an army of boisterous cherubs.
He cannot refrain from noticing the ways
in which human bodies turn over and under
together, the palpable heat rising vividly,
like the hunger of a starved snake.
He cannot even keep the flash of fireworks
out from within the crevices of his mind,
where her smile lingers, and there
exists no sense of time.
Vermillion, alabaster and cobalt bleed
onto his memory so profound;
he recalls exactly the pride within
her eyes as her last breathe disappeared.
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