More of a high functioning sociopath,

Or a synecdoche: the whole or the part?

She was a girl with ideas, and he was the man with words.

Together they made a pair of twisted weeds;

Her ideas were innocuous, his words incomprehensible.

And they were infallible.

Like a cold sun, like dead life, like unreal reality

They toiled on and on, the maze of lyrics drawing on upon them.

She was still a sociopath, and he her synecdoche.

She made him feel alive, resurrected him;

Catharsis, Metanoia: all those purgation methods were truths again.

Under that network of veins, she used to dive in;

He used to open up as her sapphire hue spread across him;

She always closed up on him.

she the close, or he the gateway?

Seeking was so futile, with no answer to find.

The certain uncertainty hovering over the horizon;

She merging unto him, becoming his life flow.

His veins were white, her blood blue;

Their unrelated relatedness touching a chord of love.

But like every lovers' story, theirs was made to suffer.

Why should they be together, when they are grenades,

Their creative destruction both a boon and a bane,

Their marriage expectedly unexpected.

How can they be bonded, when it leads to a divergence?

How can this union be productive, if it creates a misfit,

And from the zenith they were dropped down to nadir,

And no moan, no stifles were heard; no shriek of pain,

The music was set, the singers prepared;

The lyrics were being waited for.

The beauty of the was murder horrendous:

He was torn apart, she lay broken.

One single offense of being unprecedented-

Oh parchment, you were punished;

Thy mate the quill, hanged for shame.