Fireworks

Does she ever wonder
if I will abandon this smell of sulfur after being
blown inside out?
Or does she enjoy seeing through these crispy holes?
I wonder.
Wonder if we can still transfix light into foliage
the way we did.
Does she normally adhere to the soundbites
of visionary evenfalls
or does she pick them from an expanse
like grapes in a vineyard?
Tonight I have sought to discover

as into the tides of the night's chasm,
I vertically toss this message in a bottlerocket
written with a language of burst and crumble
to a gypsy of fluorescent gambits
with a shape as timeless as her name:

To My Beloved Ultraviolet,

The alchemists and the stargazers never knew you were a woman,
much less- single. Not until last night, early July, when I dared
call you down from your star spangled balcony. I cunningly wished to
join the people in their jubilation of hazard. Little did I know that
you humbly dared answer back from your lofty heavens. You are a
beam of celebrity, an adorner of skin tone, and you accompanied
me at the expense of countless galaxies.

We danced in our own chromatic edifice that
we built with fire and thorns. I twirled you with rocketing thistles,
the ghosts of manmade missiles, and you answered back
with a doubledutch wavelength grin. The taste of your cherrybomb
lips left me deaf and shrouded in smoke. If my buddies ever knew
that I have fallen for Ultraviolet's rays they would laugh
in my face, say you are too good for me. I don't need to be
reminded. But if the silence from your balcony is to be taken
for regret and wariness, then what is to make of the fiery shells
we have broken or the sizzling rose petals?
Our affection a cursive matrix of amorous distortions.

Let us recollect avenues of woodwind atmosphere. The glowing
serpents hissing cyclonically down streets. Let us erupt together,
leaving dead galaxies behind us as we guide ourselves with
nothing but Roman candle light.
For by dawn we are white clouds and diamond gleam, by noon we are
blue lips and circumzenith smiles, by night we are thunderclaps
and fireworks and why do we love fireworks so much? A poet named
Langston Hughes knew why. Fireworks are just dreams in reverse:
first they explode and then they defer! I dream of making fireworks
with you very soon. Be the fuse of my forevers, Ultraviolet.

Signed,

Your Favorite Shattered Twilight of Twilights