Fireworks

Like the color bombs against the dark skies, love explodes. Love is the very blast of brightness and sound, the grainny shapes and the printed memory. The duration varies, some explosions last a life time and some leave in a blink, but one way or the other it's hard to forget them.

And I remember each one. The first was a sad hue of blue, ressonating in my eyes and breaking my stillness. The second was a warm pink, flikering and forever falling, yet graciously. The third was red, then yellow, then purple, then black, melding with the night canvas and touching my face with its embers.

I still smell ash.