Peace of the Storm

She was crazy, adventurous and intense.
Living in her own universe.
He was simple as the spring sky,
charming and soothing,
waiting for summer to come.
She was the late autumn leaf,
floating free and wild in the early winter winds,
carefree about finding her ground.
He was the stone someone throws
on water, glides for a moment but
finds peace in the bottom,
prudent about settling down.
She was the sapling which grew
slitting the solid wall, fervent about
her idea of reckoning.
He was the maple which gave shade
to a man with an ax. Calm, even with
the thought of falling.
She was the nomad desire of a child,
infinite for the idea of scaling.
He was the tapered insecurity
of a young lady, trembling in the gist of failing.
She was a traveler without a map,
unaware of the itinerary.
He was the road which had known
its lone destination for long,
sincere about the guiding.
Two extremities, yet they
collapsed into each other.
Something filled the infinite gap
between them. It might be feelings
which ended separation.
Feelings were the wings which
never spread out but could make them fly.
Nobody ever wrote about their love. 
Neither did they. But love existed.
It was a storm and the story continued.
She was the peace in the center of the storm.
He was the deranged one who entered into it.
She was the wind which whispered in his ear.
He was the saint who meditated on those sounds.
She was the silence in the roar.
He was the chaos in the order.
She was the warmth in midst of the hurricane.
He was the wanderer who searched for it.
Nobody saw the change but time did.
He was her from the past and she was him.

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