Slowburn

Fantastic are the fireworks that fill the sky of my mind's eye as I remember falling fast for you, my love.

The multi-colored pops and bangs burn brightly with reflective dances upon the surface of my teary, internal eyes, the blacks of my pupils replaced with sulfuric rainbow reflections, my body all hot and breathless, it's an acute exhilaration, an influx of a furious fire and desire, straight to my core - a fever, I'd guess, if it didn't feel so fucking good.

I'm symptomatic, yes. But not sick.

Just as fast, my farewell to that fire in flight. My symptoms subside; my fever fizzles.

Oh, my love, the aerial explosions deafened me, the bright fury blinded me. Even the red flags burned pretty in that light.

I've stumbled out from that blinding light and can see now clearly a serene spot, not far away but far from the restless fireworks that still dance along a dark horizon. I sit down. My eyes linger on that colorful firmament now even further away. My ears detect the delay of quiet booms.

Oh, my love, not a lot of time at all has passed; there will soon be a finale. I feel it. I want it. But I don't move closer. I lie down instead.

I stare at the stars whose hydrogenous fires have raged for many billions of years, bundled nuclear explosions, the brightest of burning bodies in all cosmos; the heat they exude, persistent and tenacious; there will not soon be a finale.

Oh, my love, my feelings for you fled as fast as the firework finale came.

I want someone who will watch with me that humble show, the one the heavens have played for billions of years. Someone who knows that stars are born from patience, from dust and gravity and time pressing together until something catches fire and holds. I choose the slow burn.