They met again as fate would have it, and in time, it prodded the silences, soft as the whispers among lotus leaves-easy to ignore yet persistent. Mann had her in his arms, soft brush of lips on the brow, every touch a vow to protect and cherish. "Cassette, my starfire's pulse," he whispered, "beyond any horizon, our flame flickers on, for you are my tide, my truth, my heart's ageless song." A sly smile appeared on her lips, hugging him close; within that embrace, she became his refuge. "My Mann, our love is a river that flows beyond destiny. It is a song that chants of forever."
There was an abiding bond of trust in their sojourn, whereby every caress turned into an eternal verse and a flame that carried their poetry through time. They would just sit in silence under their banyan tree, her head against his chest, with the sweet caresses he offered interspersed with the songs that cared for her and echoed her name: "Cassette, my moon's own hymn," he muttered, "you are my tide, my heart's eternal bloom, my soul's unending vow."
Their love was a short sonnet sung by the hushed voices of quiet moments-dream-binding hugs, devout kisses, an intermingling of truth, where every touch became a promise to cherish, to hold, to love till the dying of the stars.