In this silence wrought by her sleep, the world is left with a void. Pink splotched sky. The arbiter goes missing who will say this is evening or early morning. I store as currency my kisses for her return. My scrolls are filled slowly with the markings of time. Her sweet breath will once again mingle with mine. Hand in hand we will greet the lilacs and daisies and honour them with sauntered stares. And these names once garbled in haste are now as butterscotch to the lips of a child. Put your ears to my palms; I do not lie about these things. This world is a dream. We laze patiently for the tide to grant us passage to the other side of time.