And then there they were. Two walking wounds, or as Pink Flyod said two lost souls in a swimming bowl. She, with her almond eyes and crescent moon lips, and he, with a hiding frown thinking of the codependence on fate – its twisted nature and influence on the mortal.
With him, it had never been so paradoxical. With her, it had never been so coherent. It was a confluence of ironies. Or perhaps, let us not call it confluence. They had not merged. It was something of running parallel, sometimes narrowing the lines and sometimes harrowingly broad.
He of the right brain, she of the left. And then he thought of all that had been as words dropped casually and conversation slipped from one topic to another. Reminiscing is not always ideal and he knew. He knew a lot but resisted the truth from entering him. He was in eternity yet craved for eternity. The breath flew in its unrhythmic pattern, not entirely an unfamiliar feeling for him.
It was a soulful moment yet the soul felt hungry. He remembered – years ago – how she had been same and the questioned lingered. Would she still be same? Would she still be that goddess whose oblivion rained a thousand pains? Whose sporadic dances of presence would still be dreamy rendezvous than bankable encounters? But then questions linger. Its their nature.
As the evening faded, and moonlight opened its doors, her face gleamed in a mellifluous twilight. She spoke, and she shared. She would not reveal all of her and he would not probe. He would worship that moment. Follies are made in rush and he decided to practice patience.
She seemed be of another world. And that world seemed worldly while they sipped their respective nectars. In this fateful moment, he was not himself.
The night dawned soon. A side embrace that bound and parted them was completed. She, of all that she was made of, smilingly left and he, with a hope and gratitude, sided.
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