She was always like the wind. Blowing through his, albeit thinning, hair, an essence that refreshed him, revived him, and yet could take his breath away.

It was like trekking through summer's city streets and inhaling department stores' artificial currents of wind. It was sitting in a sweltering room and sighing at the momentary rush of ice from an opened door. It was standing in a storm and trying the best he could muster to not get swept out of control; and struggling in a desert, knowing that the slightest shift in the air would come and go in the blink of an eye. Knowing that he couldn't catch it. Knowing that even if he somehow managed to hold it in its hands, it would cease to be what it truly was anyway.

That was why he never tried to hold on too tight, never wanted be swayed by the one that could knock him on his back with passion then leave him broken, alone as it moved on. This was the only way he could understand how one so determined could just as easily waver as soon as he, the obstacle, arose in her path... then try to find her original course again. That was why he treasured it when it was here and why he let it go.

She'd been at it too long to suddenly move off of the fast track. Her nature had grown to persist and move around the things that got in the way of the greater good. The destination. And even though, perhaps, enough coaxing could slow it down, he didn't think she was ready for it. For him. So he reveled in the breeze while he could and picked at its memory once it left. Happy for its contentment now and for the future that would one day come.

Because she was always like the wind. And the wind always came back.