I traced your silhouette against a curtain of festival fireworks. While shoulders jostled and people cheered, we never touched or spoke as wafts of roasted chestnuts turned bitter. In a crowd of joy, I was crying inside.
As I walked home that night, alone, I thought I was going fucking crazy for seeing you: two days after I’d buried you.
A year later, I’ve returned to the same fireworks: you told me to create my own festivals of life. And although you remain a glimpsed shadow or shiver, you’re now a sparkler I can’t extinguish in a crowd of joy.
As I walked home that night, alone, I thought I was going fucking crazy for seeing you: two days after I’d buried you.
A year later, I’ve returned to the same fireworks: you told me to create my own festivals of life. And although you remain a glimpsed shadow or shiver, you’re now a sparkler I can’t extinguish in a crowd of joy.
