The Smoke of a fire that once kept us warm

 To breathe life into the dying fire

Last night... I sat around a fire, laughing with strangers. Whiskey in hand, one glass after another, the conversations danced from topic to topic, like sparks crackling and fading into the night sky. Time? It didn’t exist. The world felt distant, irrelevant. If you asked me, I’d swear to you—that was the best night of my life.

But then, suddenly, it was 4 a.m. Was it late? Or had it somehow become early again? The crowd thinned until it was just me... and him... and the fire, its flame shrinking, barely alive.

I leaned forward, trying to breathe life back into the embers. A desperate act, perhaps, to hold onto something. Anything. And then he said it, softly but firm—“Just let it die, man.”

I froze. Turned to look at him. Smoke stung my eyes, but it wasn’t the smoke that made it hard to see.

“What?” I asked, even though I’d heard him. I had heard him clearly. But still, I needed him to say it again. Because how could I let it die? How could I let anything die when it felt like the fire was all I had left?

“so you one of those huh ? Cant you see it's over let the fire die man everyone has left Look around ” i shrugged looking so lost the intense coldness of the early hours piercing my skin, he repeated “everyone is gone the moment is over go Home”

And yet... I didn’t blow on the embers again. I just sat there, watching as the last flicker of flame surrendered to the dark.

The words still echoing in my head  “just let it die man” but how could i truly 'Just Go Home'.