August sits as the wick of a candle poised over the table edge and what remains of a heartily devoured meal. Casting warm golden shadows across the silent hall where laughter used to ring. A steady drip of wax mounting over the forgotten hours since we playfully crept up to bed careless bits of mirth strewn about the floor. Half a glass of wine, and whip cream that has fallen remain unperturbed by their suspended fate. No breath of fresh air to disturb this waxing morn, the soft grey light already collecting on the dust of the picture window. Four in the morning and the house echoes in stillness, but the little wick burns on into its final hour. My dreams are spent, slumber deadens the sense once ensnared so sweetly. Released into dreams better left unknown. No sign of hesitancy as the flame begins to flicker and start at the end of its rope. A black reminder in the morning light. Even in peaceful times, all good things must come to an end. Silence envelops us.