He never wanted that memory to fade away. Every night before going to sleep, he would think about it and ensure that the love he had nurtured when he was twenty four would not fade away to nothingness. His heart became incapable of feeling what it was. At the age of sixty three, it becomes preoccupied with many other things.
Streams of innocence did flow out from his eyes when he lost his love. An impulsive flirt during his time, he could neither convince himself or the other side about what he felt. At the age of sixty three, he looked lost. Sages of his time would print out pages of so-called wisdom to convince him that there was no future for his love which knew no boundaries. His ability to love everyone as an individual would make him incapable of sharing. He grew old with many people, but he was the only one who grew old alone.
He was not used to drama. Indeed, when she claimed the space she needed inside him, he could provide her none. It was not because he had some other woman there. It was because he could not let go of himself. Obsession, he knew was a disadvantage. He thought self-obsession was an exception.
She looked upon real life as a drama. That made her more realistic than he could ever be. Maybe, she found the fault-lines in his thought. Women normally do. Yet, she was trying to occupy the space she believed was duly hers. She knew she had only one opponent. And that was him.
He remembered the first time he met her. It was in a garden full of thorns. She remembered the first time she met him. It was in a garden full of roses. They had spent almost an hour together. She was glad to find him. So was he. But, he missed his solitude.
Her story was over. His was still very much unfinished.