Hey there, firework,
fireworking your way
through the dark alleyways
of the night sky, where
stars gallop around the
moon, where wishes that
I made in fifth grade found
its way near you upon the
string of a balloon. Oh, if only
that moon could keep your blazing
shhhhhsecrets, share the coloring-book
colors of your wavy hair, make me
feel as alive as the pops and crackles
and the intensity of his craned neck and stare.
Fiction, poetry, and all that good stuff . . .