The Mathematician

He was a mathematician, but not in the way that others understood. Numbers were not points on a line but aspects, seasons of the soul.
They were free and unchanging as fate.

He could name many a man who dwelt in a crowd but was one-ish in the deep of his heart. He could sense the divided mind in somebody's two-ish head. And he saw the balance in the step of the three-ish few, weaving their lives in triangulated calm.

He knew that numbers could shift like fate. His mind had stilled when she entwined her fingers in his and he hadn't known any more whose fingers they were, and two became one.

And one night in winter, under a singular moon, she breathed a life from herself and he cut the cord with gentle hands. One became two.