No, my love, you are not a firework. For fireworks are rapid, fleeting, bursts of light – beautiful, but passing, loud, but eventually fading. You are the stars against my deep, dark night skies whose light lives on beyond its death, surpassing lightyears, bursting into wild flames before it retreats into an abysmal kind of beautiful. You are my very own universal mystery, and I am still at awe to love you from afar.
Burn me if you must, swallow me whole and let me die along with your light; I wouldn't mind, as I still will have been part of your flickering, fiery, life.
(So no, Katy, I don't want to be a firework. I want to be starlight - to die, only to be gracefully reborn.)