11 Jan

I woke up with a start, the cold wind whipping on my dry, salty cheeks. I shuddered, my gaze falling on the fire. The last thing that I remembered before I fell into sweet slumber was how brightly and beautifully it burnt: how it had warmed me against the chill, how the flames danced before my eyes. It was foolish to have it burn so fiercely: I am now left with the weak embers, stirring with the wind, then losing its glow to the ash. I knelt before it, trying to revive it with my stale breath. A small glow, but not enough to sustain the brief kindle. Soon enough my tears were falling on it, suffocating what little remained of what was  last night a magnificent blaze. I sat back as I watched it die. The sky was slowly moving to a purple dawn. Daylight would come soon, but all I could feel was the empty chill.


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