They were like Fire and Wind. She needed him to survive, but he choked her with his gusts. She scorched him with her flames and he flew away. And when they both met, it was like a tornado crashing with an inferno. She drew in his strength to flare like the sun, her flames carried his singed breezes. But there were times when they were at harmony. His spring breeze caressing her flickering fire, as if dancing to a tune that only they heard. But it was momentary, and like always the Wind extinguished the Flame. However, when one fire dies, another rises from its ashes. They were like Wind and Fire, then.

He was the Sky, she, the howling Wind. He was her home. He was always there. When she swept in with the winter gusts, when she teared through like a tornado, when she rustled through with the fragrances of spring weaved into her hair, when her scorching heat wave was weighed down by the burden of the rainstorm tears, when she was a chilly west wind, bringing down leaves of hope. He was always there. In the shadows of the clouds that obscured him, in the veil of the rainbow that seperated them, in the whiff of the winds that blew from pale blue forget-me-nots, in the tinge of red of the summer breezes, in the violet of the storms that followed, in the colours of the gales that were her. He was the Sky and she, the Wind, then.