Love...

He is lost, lost in the world of his passion. His mind is clear of thoughts as he frees himself with the music he makes. She watches him. The expression of concentration on his face not a look of happiness most would say, but she knows different. She admires this about him, his passion. She wishes she was the focus of that passion. Can she be his? Would he love her?

She cannot think of how this could come to be as she is not free. Locked as she is in herself, guarded by her broken heart, prisoner to love’s lost promises. Is he captive too? She wonders at what would make him captive, he seems so innocent, so new to the game of love. He must not carry the battle wounds. In her wonderings she is lost; all the while playing with numbers from the many books surrounding her.

He watches her, watches her passion. She has declared war against the numbers on her pages. As he watches, he sees her victories and defeats as she battles onward. She thinks that there is perfection in these numbers, problems, formulas, and proofs. She told him once that unlike poetry, which she loves, math has a perfect sequence. With words in a poem many different words can create flow. In math only the right order of numbers and variables makes harmony. He wishes he was the object she pours her intensity over. Can he be hers? Could she love him?

He cannot imagine this coming to be for she is a mystery to him. Closed as she is to the world around her, frozen in her reality, without any emotion but sorrow. Why was she wounded? To him she seems so fragile, delicate, and special; he wonders who would hurt such a creature. In his wonderings he is lost; all the while playing onward the music he loves.