fireworks


it doesn’t really matter now, whether i remember your eyes as black or as
brown, just like it now doesn’t matter how white your neck looked beneath
the dark blue sheets or how your chest glossed with hair tickled my nose,
or whether you smoked all my cigarettes, or whether you loved me or just
had this thing about being alone. and who i was to fault you, i knew what
it was like to be in the middle of summer watching the fireworks all by
yourself and secretly hoping one of them would be fired right into your
gut, your chest, your mouth. my heartbeat was in your mouth, always in
your mouth, firm and red, red like sparklers and roman candles. and i
always knew just how to set you off. but nobody talks about the ash after,
the ash that falls from the sky after the lights are gone, that settles in
your eyelashes, this dirty snow that falls during a memory that always
ends abruptly after a sparkling vermilion flash brighter, in that instant,
than the surrounding stars. and gone just as quickly.

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