True love is like the meeting of two young vines,
at first they occasionally touch,
then as they grow, they intermittently become intertwined in the winds of passion,
only to part gently, but never stray far from the other.

With ever increasing age and mutual attraction, their tendrils become evermore intertwined,
their growth ever more firm and common in direction,
winding around each other, becoming evermore dependant on the other for support.
Eventually, they are so wrapped up with the other that they are inseparable,
each living as only one half of the whole, unable to tell when one starts and the other ends.

The eventual death of one heralds the imminent death of the other; there being no such thing as ‘half of a love’, or ‘half of a life’.

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