In a world that held unity in its palm and had integrity flowing in its veins, it was still an age old tale when it came to the numbers mixing in with the words and the sentences. Words were deemed superior as they helped carry emotions within them and numbers were considered no more useful than to determine a value of something.
One fine day, words and scars collapsed into a pale and obscure desolation of unbridled nothingness and birthed a broken poetry which reeked of solitude and hurt. It got printed on the pretty pages and was readied up for sale. Then came the turn of numbers who were lined up to go next, but they were outcasted and assigned only to the bottom of the pages, hence washing away the numerian smile from their roman faces.
They wondered why words held more value over them, the numbers that were in counts of millions and billions. Infuriated and agitated, they summoned all the numbers they could find to wage a war against the words that they shared the world with. They called in decimals and integers and fractions even, declaring a state of emergency in a country that was habituated by both of them alike. Amidst this war, I, a word warrior stumbled upon him, my muse, who just happened to side with the numbers, our enemies.
He played with numbers, I with words. Under the midnight blue, he'd count the stars and I would search for the poetries binding the moon with them. He'd collate the axioms of geometry to the arches of my lips; I would etch myriads of poetries with the slightest manoeuvres of his skin. He'd narrate me stories of his numbers mingling under his anatomy and I would steal lullabies from the zephyrs blowing against him.
"Poles apart," they said, describing us. Ever tried turning the globe around? That was us. Molded by the memories that plucked the blazing moments of our gulfs, we swam towards the shore of our resemblance. He might be zillion miles yonder, still he belonged to every follicle which resided in my skin, every drop of existence in my soul. I belonged to every zero, he started from and every infinity he would end on. He held the calibre to give me chills on the hottest day of the year with his multiplicated anecdotes and I could warm him up with the blanket of my poetry I stitched with our mellifluous metaphors even on frosty nights.
In a world that had started holding anger in its fists and had hatred boiling in its veins, we charted upon a new age love story where numbers made love to the words and the sentences.