As the snow falls softly onto your cheeks, I dream of a better place. One where the moon doesn't disappear as morning comes, the purple haze won't leave and you will stay forever to die in my arms. Pain can be placid as each droplet glides along the crevices of your body. My tone is indiscreet, each fleeting syllable formed perfectly on my lips, but as they touch yours, we make sweet music together. Your face is close as I speak words that I longingly hope you will never forget. Our limbs entangle as the song cascades, never to end, much like the book in which we write. Each chapter carefully crafted in my hands. Sometimes I wish you had written me, my heart a page beneath your hands, droplets of ink sprawled helplessly over my being. The chapter has finished now, though, when do we start to write the next? Or has our time of making music come to an end.