On Tight Grip and Sparks by Coldplay


When I look at sparkling lights and sparklers and the science-fiction red of any explosive from a cardboard box I think of Sparks by Coldplay now, and this isn’t good. It’s not good because it means I’m getting over that thing that happened. It means the ending of all of this is nearly here. It’s no wonder that the best things are like fireworks - bright and hot and glittering and over before you know it. I love cliches - that thing that happened taught me to do that. It’s no wonder, either, that we liked fireworks – me and that thing. So camp and obnoxious and loud, fit to burst and literally made to dissappear. I had no idea when a stupid sparkler wouldn’t set me off anymore, but apparently, it’s now, today. Fireworks don’t make me choke me up with a big fat golfball lump in my throat anymore.
This is not a good thing.
I am holding onto the cold rocket, shaking it, relighting it. 

That’s what I mean by a ‘tight grip’. 

Do you, that thing that happened, remember holding rockets in our hands? Singeing our pathetic arm hairs on the flames, pointing them into trees and bridges and rivers - such obnoxious and obvious fun. I had to hold on to the launcher with the tightest grip my knuckles could muster despite my fingers telling me

let go, it’s burning, let go.

I hold onto stupid little songs from that thing that happened in a stupid little playlist, with its undecaying residue like little plastic launcher tubes that I see littered in parks and gardens on January 1st of every single empty new year. I don’t want to let go of these sad little songs that are  empty now. 
These damp explosives.
These songs are being replaced by, of all things, Coldplay songs.
I don’t even like Coldplay, and I don’t want to let go of those silly little lyrics that that algorhythm coughed through the speakers in the mid-morning after one of those nights of watching YouTube, watching TV, watching Netflix with you, that thing that happened.

So, now, a cliche of an ending. A cross dissolve into a sunset:

A firework lighting up a blurred sky
and a voice over,
slower now,
telling you that if you love someone, you have to let them go.
It’s a little bit of warm vomit hacked up,
hot and bothered by the painful predictability of it all.
It’s a firework that makes a big bang - one that we all saw coming.

So heartbreak, so fireworks, so cliches, so what? 

What’s this about then?

Here, I am asking really, when does a firework finish?

Is it when the stick falls into someones little pond somewhere, hot enough to make a fizzy sound but not hot enough to cause dismay, disarray or to even dissolve coi, goldfish and lilypads into sinking ash?
Does a firework finish when it leaves a hand, a rocket launcher?
Does it finished when it’s carried away, cold, in a binbag?
When it’s thrown into a landfill pile?

Essentially, I’m asking this: when can you be absolutely sure it’s over? The firework or, yes, too, that thing that happened.
Is it when the songs don’t matter anymore?
Is it when a firework is just a firework?
Is it when there’s no flame?
no spark?
no light?




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