He watched them dance, flirt, test the patience of fate. The thinnest tendrils made them hold hands, waltz, then just as fast when the light of passions should pass they would break aside and squirm away. Their stage melted beneath them, slowly trailing away from the heat of scrutiny to solidify again, forming arms and sinews like those jagged rocks like water droplets frozen mid-fall from the ceiling of the cave.
He dreamt about sniffing out the dance of the strange candle with its twisted wick that allotted space for two flames, a bright duality, wavering in the faintest winds like reminiscence of young love. Time will come when the candle of life should all just be a waxen puddle, the cotton line blackened or drowned. Then, then, the two flames will already be one, be forgetful of their life before. And, maybe, just maybe, be distinguished as one, if the world sees fit.
He scoffed at his naivety, stopped dreaming, and extinguished it.