I am the earth, and
He is my soul.
I am his, through and through.
I danced with him in the summer, protected him in winter. I fended off a thousand weary wounds that came his way. We were one in the deep fragrant grasses on the high plains of infinity, alone underneath my sky, blue as the turquoise of a lake in spring. Our love knew no bounds. Our love was, and so it should have been, unto eternity, his eyes peering into mine as we embraced the universe.
I was his mountain, I was his hillock. I was the verdant field of his imagination, his valleys and swift seas and high passes. The eagles are my kin, and I watched over him. For he was my life and he was my joy, from summer unto the deeps of white winter. His hands in my silver hair as I looked up at his face, admiring the strength that he strived for, the strength that was his from the labours of his all.
A depth that I had but had never worked for, and he was precious to me, my protector as I was his. I drowned in his brave embrace, his soul merging into mine, as the mellow harmonies of our joining reverberated to the highest stratas of the heavens. His courage and strength and nobility, that I loved in him. He gave me life and hope and happiness, a brief spark of the light in the torrential, cascading grind of eternal darkness of existence.
But as with all things, it was not to be. Not forever.
For darkness came and marred our sight, and the matrimony of heaven and earth was broken. And the wall of sorrow came between us. The storm did not bother me, for I was above it. But it did him, for he was one of the world, privy to the slurs of time.
And so at last as all things ended so did the dreadful darkness, blocking his sight from my eyes. And as the clouds receded and the sun shone bright and new on the rejuvenated plains he was there, bereft of my embrace, exposed to the world and all its pain. And, wracked in yearning and hope, I went to him.
But he avoided my gaze, he turned on me. My hands touched nothing, embraced nothing, for he shunned me then. He said the matrimony of our communion was damned. His eyes, those young, young eyes, told all. Stricken, he went away, abandoning the truest source of his fibre, of his drawn strength.
And as he left me my tears touched the temporal earth. And the garden of man's youth was breached. And the fruits of its erstwhile splendor were consumed. And he left, stoking his independence, leaving all that was dear and comforting and a source of love for him, to make his indelible mark on the permanence of the unmoving mountains.
Was he right?
Even now, I do not know.