the art of healing

fireworks.

I tell him he is like a firework, and I am the night.

He smiles.

I don't think he understands.

He is my firework, lighting up my darkness with technicolor dreams and thudding hearts.

But fireworks go as quickly as they come, leaving the sky even darker than before. One can never handle such sensations for too long anyway, no matter how much they want to.

He does not smile when I tell him that.

I don't think he understands.