I remember when the sky turned the colour of blood,
and how the solemn photographer raised his camera higher to the sky than when he put his daughter on his shoulders.
The fireworks were scary to her, but the sparks of light illuminated in her eyes for longer than even time could count.
I remember how the grass grazed my shoulders when the sun had said goodbye for the night, comforting me with streetlights made of fireflies and chiming cricket-songs of somber tunes. 
When I visited, the fog drifted around his grave, and maybe it was a sign from my friends that were caught up in dancing around the clouds-
or maybe it was just a coincidence.
He liked to count off of his fingertips and draw smiles on his hands. He thought that, maybe, he could tattoo the happiness to his skin and let it consume him.
I remember how the lyrics of her laugh seemed to be written by the stars,
but she hated the night; even more so after she had begged for the sun to let her go.
I don’t remember why.