Ash floats earthward, meandering through flames’ shimmering swirl. Excited pieces of air mix with chunks of thick, cool night.
Pangs resound in the heart.
Dry, tarnished aluminum folds into place. The empties clink and clatter, dropped into a relegated five-gallon. In the moonlit night, they, both, remain.
Pangs resound between them.
Eyes glass over and refract inward. They cannot be blinded to certainty. Ends will come, everything falls, but this is not that. There is nothing for it and the mourning for helplessness is just.
Within and without, pangs resound.
And everything falls.