Fireworks

by Greg Anderson

Copyright ©2026

Crowds cheer at the sky’s first bloom—

red chrysanthemums bursting,

golden comets dripping slow—

but my eyes are fixed on the way

your lips part,

catching the light like wet silk.

We slip into the shadow

behind the hum of lawn chairs and laughter,

where the grass bends under our knees,

and the air tastes of salt and heat.

Each firework above

finds its echo in the pulse between us—

a white flare when your mouth meets mine,

a deep blue shiver when your hand

slides beneath the cotton edge of my shirt.

The finale comes in a rush—

sky and skin both trembling,

our breaths tangled like smoke,

and somewhere far away

the crowd roars for the last explosion,

never knowing the brighter fire

we lit here in the dark.