I used to smoke fireworks.
Not the kind that shattered summer nights.
The honking big ones, mortars in the sky,
Coloring clouds with sulfurous reds and yellows.
I used to smoke like sparklers.
Hold the metal tubes in my teeth
And singe my mustache off
With each inhale.
I used to wheeze with those little pods,
Packets of black powder
That your friends could throw at you
And pop like gunshots.
I could crush roman candles between my lips
And shoot my name to the stars.
But that\'s not why I did it.
Your eyes reflecting each tiny moment
The flashes and bangs and whimpers
As you twined fingers through mine.
I used to smoke fireworks.
But I don\'t breathe the way I used to.
And every song in the sky has dimmed,
To peter out, like you,
As a Catherine wheel in the empty spaces above.