The sky is on fire, and the world holds its breath. It bleeds out in streaks of crimson, fingers of flame licking the edges of clouds, leaving behind ash that the wind cannot carry away.
It doesnβt scream. No, it only burns in silence, a slow, tender rage, as if the heavens themselves have grown tired of holding the weight of the stars.
We watch from below, a chorus of small prayers wrapped in our own fragile skin. Some of us still believe in rain, in the mercy of the dark, but tonight, the fire is too bright, too wild, too beautiful to look away from.
The sky is on fire, and I wonder if this is how the end beginsβ a blaze too beautiful to escape, too hot to be touched.
We hold onto the night, our hands trembling with the heat, knowing, somehow, that this fire does not care if we burn with it.
The sky is on fire, and all we can do is watch as it consumes the last of the light.