I hear the echo of fireworks, only not those of the Fourth
of July, maybe not even real, a memory of bright colors and big bangs I still
keep in my head from when I knew they were real, from when each meant something
in my life, that afternoon delight when we both played hooky, calling in from
different phones in order to keep them at the office from suspecting we might
be playing hooky together, the stream of light through the windows above your
bed revealing aspects previously lost in the dark of night, now locked up in my
head, to recall when I hear real fireworks, our lives have gone in different
directors, and maybe I alone recall those moments as joyful.
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