Fireworks in the shapes of lightning bolts and hearts splatter the
night sky’s canvas and reflect on the midnight waters of the river.

The picture-perfect picnic is packed, the blanket sprinkled with grass
and eagerly waiting to be shaken out. The progressing masterpiece of art
is nearing its last detail: his words, a lamination into permanence.

He takes a moment to lean close. He says that I am as beautiful
as the fireworks soaring high above my lovely head of thick hair –

And I recoil from his lips, asking, So what?

Are you implying that my beauty is also as fleeting as the burning
chemicals above our heads, the ones that are dancing into existence
only to disappear within moments? Because those chemicals will never
return in the same style and personality again; they are insects,
living to fulfill one task and nothing else in their brief flight in the night.

Dare you say that I am nothing more to the world than mixed elements
meant for a single moment of entertainment? Am I a shooting star
to be wished on and gazed upon momentarily, and then forgotten?

No – I am more than a firework, sir. Understand that I am proud
to be more constant and even average than the gorgeous and temporary
display above our heads. Or, in correction, above your lonely head.