A different person in different season, she never absorbed him. A free maniac, he never saw her. They walk two separate paths intersecting each other at precise intervals of day and night. She plucks snowflakes and blows them to him. He is a timeless machine, never drew the snowflakes on the back of his hand. The tree of life smiles broadly.
She writes poetry. She knows numbers. She is his center. She does not know. She turns the sun cold. She is the answer to his question of solitude. The candles burn bright, incessantly. He is the warmth of her thoughts. He watches the moon sleep into the night. He is a warrior, too strong-willed. He does not know. He is the key to her escape.
I am a maze. They are a maze. Too easy to be fathomed and frowned upon. They are each other's arguments. They are a setting of a lovely painting. I'm a dry soul, a vagrant in my own way. I don't like walls meeting. They are a blue river, in each other's flux. They are synergy. I'm my own shadow. I burn myself in my own steam. We pass each other with just another smile. The tree of life blesses amply.
There are a million stories in one story. To each his own.