He walked in numbers,

and in algorithms, formulas, and expressions.

Each step analyzed and deliberate,

decided three flexions before.

Each atom had it own perfectly formulated purpose,

engraved into cold, grey stone.

His cell suffocated helplessly in ennui.

But she walked in melodies,

and in brushstrokes, arabesques, and prose.

Each step one, in an everchanging amaranthine cycle,

written in erasable pencil.

Each thought lusted for another rosier than the last.

Her lack of systematic thought, incarnating her shimmering blithe.

Slowly, and then all at once,

creativity replaced his chemistry.

For the first time, he failed to recall the structure that defined,

the entirety of his being,

embracing the deep enigmas, she treasured dearly.

Her vivacious carelessness brightened his boundless monotony, and

invigorating whimsy drowned his rational processes.

Nonetheless,

protocol clawed its way back,

and her beautiful spontaneity was banished from his provincial cerebrum.

But an insignificant cluster of his respirating cells,

clung feverishly to her vanishing legacy.

Continuously, they craved her breathless ability to perceive the world,

as more than a perfectly fabricated continuum.

They never forgot how art was to her as data were to him.

As they watched him fall deeper, and deeper into the inescapable void,

prayers for her homecoming were sent to the sky.

So, the girl who walked in melodies could once again save,

the boy who walked in numbers.