Consistent Climate

Fireworks sang that night,
like artillery
across the dead
but dreaming city.
A 3-minute symphony
of gunpowder and light.
I watched from my window,
not the punctured sky,
but the human labyrinth beneath it.
Not a move. Not a breath drawn.
No drunk girls laughing loudly,
No cars coughing sickly.
Silence stood in the distance. 
Unimpressed;
by the violent display of sound.

There is nothing to kill here anymore,
it would seem.

On our moving ashes,
a myriad of poppies grew,
covering the fields
in a sea of blood,
lulled by the wind.
Summer planted
flowers in our heads,
and butterflies in our stomachs.
Now October breathes heavily
on the streets,
throwing Lucky Strike & Camel
at memory.

The girl with the red hair;
waiting impatiently in a car
by the lake.
My heart thumping.

The girl with blonde hair;
reading, heart-in-throat,
one of my scribbled love notes.

The girl with black hair;
smoking, holding my headaches
in her hand.

Truly,
There is nothing to kill here,
but time.