Fireworks.
Pieces of explosives that once caught fire burst into color.
The Doctor looked at Rose, his Rose, standing in the light of the London 2012 fireworks, her face aglow. Two people that once together save the world and each other.
Fireworks. They were like fireworks.
Holding her hand they walked forth, watching as the colors vanished, leaving dust and dark trails in the sky.
"You know, they keep trying to pull us apart but they never will," Rose commented, her voice hopeful. He said nothing. Because they would separate them, him and his Rose. That was inevitable. Something had to give, it always did. And when it did, they would be like fireworks.
Separated, but with traces of beauty and color everywhere. An explosion of life, laughter and love. Their dust- the dust of their love and friendship- would be scattered, falling down and making life a bit more sad and beautiful.
He squeezed her hand, looking up at the fireworks again,
"A storm is coming," he said, cryptically. Rose looked up at him, worried. But he seemed… content.
Because he knew what that storm was. That it would take her from him. And then, they would be firework dust.
Settling over everything.
Shattered pieces.
Beautiful.
Colorful.
Love.