Fireworks, and You, and Me

Warning: This is fiction -- But some aspects to the tales such as the emotional degree is true to life. Clocked at 15:20PM November 26, 2023

Lustful desires have been attained,
Yet the pleasure felt in vain,
You tried to tuck me into bed,
But my headspace was a mess,
I turned you down,
Tried to kick you out,
At that moment,
There were explosions,
With fireworks blossoming,
I felt a familiar yearning,
Please be with me tonight,
'I don't wanna be alone under this light',
What's with me tonight?
I should've been resisting, where's my urge to fight?
And you too, you just sighed,
And embraced me, kissing me goodnight,
Oh, how I wished myself to be more sturdy,
Then I wouldn't have to endure the guilt nor feel lonely,
I could've tucked myself to bed tonight,
Avoiding the painful reminders brought up by those fire lights,
Fireworks, and you, and me,
The bossoming explosions, made a melody,
Fireworks, and you, and moon,
You are all objects to my desires, damn baffoons,
Why did my heart then beat so loud?
Why does this memory haunt me up until now?
I could've just drank myself away,
To lose more time, and count less days,
Why must I persist? No, why am I--
Why, why is it a question? Such lies,
I wanted to be happy, and to be comforted,
Beyond mortal lustful desires, I wish all sweetness permitted,
I wanted them all, for myself-- No, everyone,
To be innocent again, to love like anyone,
An accursed fate of a sinner, and a poet,
My soul torn and my heart molested,
Yet why... Do I desire wholesome happiness?
Under the moon and fireworks, you chased away my sadness...
Is it even true? I know that none cares,
Then why does my useless mind keep having questions spare?
... Who cares, who cares,
Under the enchanting moonlight, there were colorful flares,
It was by New Year Eve, and I didn't care,
Because that is the world's matter, which sentiment I do not share,
... Nor do you, I know we would just forget each other's names,
And return to our lives, living as normies, so lame,
But before I go somber from this love-sickness,
I ask you, with my stuttering voice, and my fingers fidget,
'Please answer me before my heart is tore,
My name's Leon, and what is yours?'

- Stu. T.H. (November 26, 2023)

Author's Note

If I was still in the East, I'd have made poems about "Golden Afternoons" when light tenderly pay visit to my humble cottages or chambers while I try to grasp the moments of that glaring sun reflection and resonate into the obscurity of its wildest beauty. Blame the cold for making me so bloody moody.