My memory is hazy from the smoke
and embers of the last firework fade
into the muddied night sky.
Pinprick stars can barely shine through,
though I can remember what they look like.
I forlornly try to scry reality for constellations
I once found in your eyes and hopelessly try
to copy by memory.
At least there is a shape that I can trace;
finger in the air, far from the heat
of that firework
blasting
shadows and worn care
from your face,
a five o clock shadow
now
a midnight kiss of stumbled words
and near whispered pleas
into the erupting light.
as I try to grasp
the breath to say good bye,
if not stammer out
a quiet and polite
good night.

So I excuse myself
from the brass and brash of the party,
leave behind the smells of powder and booze
to curl up at home, not too far away from the event,
but not so close that I make others uneasy
with the flutter of a sundress too loose,
avoiding the sticky sweat we all collect
on thighs during humid July nights,
holding a cheap,
cold beer in spirit of the holiday.

I cheers to the fizzing new firework display
with the opened fizzing can.
Pen and laptop nearby
as I chase the high of passions
and crushes untouched,
and begin a new document.
There are no euphemisms,
no names, no details,
just complete and utter fluff
to make mothers and grandmothers blush.

And so begins a new wish,
not one based on a fading light display,
but one built and painted word by word
on some well hidden document.
“He arrives just the way you expect him to,”
and so I will myself to dream again
but this time as the haze settles
I see a trail I can actually follow.
“‘What do you have planned?’
And that innuendo
is the open door to a love
fully lived within
your own home.”

The can is now empty,
but I no longer am.