On the way to the fireworks display we see the odd rocket launched into the sky. You turn to me and say, "Remember our fireworks?" And I smile, thinking back to the period after we first had sex, a time we christened, in part sarcastically.
An era of random, frenzied explosions with, more often than not, non-events and total flops. In short, an age of experimentation as we slowly explored each other, and ourselves, to find a more comfortable groove we could lie in together. As well as a method of our own to ensure success.
I reply, "Yeah, I remember." We look back in fondness at those excitable youths shagging under Che Guevara or Athena Man, remembering the start of the journey that led us to where we are today.
And sometimes I kind of miss those fireworks. That exciting element of the unknown rues the routine we now employ. Like how I sometimes long for the anarchy of childhood over this life of work.
Later we stand, watch the display above the lake, our faces lit by the colours: resembling aliens one second, then sea creatures the next. As each one rises and blossoms into a flurry of sparks (and sometimes a pleasing crackle) it also disappears into smoke drifting away almost unseen.
And, yeah, like the display we never used to know what was coming next. But as sweet as those single, isolated fireworks were, we now weave an intricate worked pattern within a full bedroom display.
An era of random, frenzied explosions with, more often than not, non-events and total flops. In short, an age of experimentation as we slowly explored each other, and ourselves, to find a more comfortable groove we could lie in together. As well as a method of our own to ensure success.
I reply, "Yeah, I remember." We look back in fondness at those excitable youths shagging under Che Guevara or Athena Man, remembering the start of the journey that led us to where we are today.
And sometimes I kind of miss those fireworks. That exciting element of the unknown rues the routine we now employ. Like how I sometimes long for the anarchy of childhood over this life of work.
Later we stand, watch the display above the lake, our faces lit by the colours: resembling aliens one second, then sea creatures the next. As each one rises and blossoms into a flurry of sparks (and sometimes a pleasing crackle) it also disappears into smoke drifting away almost unseen.
And, yeah, like the display we never used to know what was coming next. But as sweet as those single, isolated fireworks were, we now weave an intricate worked pattern within a full bedroom display.
The song the title comes from.
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