Wake (Death of A Friendship)

No-one else attended the wake; they were unwelcome, unneeded. A small slippery sense of hateful wounded pride slithered under consciousness while thoughts laid down in uneasy slumber.

Nothing to say, just the drink and the occasional reflection passing with it, disciplined desire of peace barring the melancholy way left stranded at the door.

Thoughts of cold steel in December moonlight, studying own reaction to grievous pain. Slowly embers burn, but they are few now. They have been set on fire, singly and in great conflagrations.

Slowly, he begins searching for more fuel. He may need it soon. One day, they'll all be gone.

And then the burns can heal.

He raises his glass in a toast to lies, love, friends, and fear, swallowing deep of the rich wine.