From afar, he watched her blossom into a wonderful rectangular flower. She had trapezoids for petals and the acutest ankles he had ever seen. He wondered if her roots were square. Her absence of curve was unsound but mathematically arousing.
She had a fetish for papercuts. She dreamed once that he plucked her petals one by one, fashioned them into paper airplanes and origami cranes. He would slice his finger on her every edge so that when he awoke, his sheets were soaked with pollen.
From afar, he noticed that she was not a bird. She was a bird carved out of soap. She lived in a floating tree. Her waxy form was not conducive to flight, but when it rained she took flight one bubble at a time. And because he was not a real man but an outline of a man drawn in chalk, he could not understand the shiny orbs. He thought they were pretty though, like hologram stickers.
He delved into an inspired study of her composition, her matter. He published a book – “The Aerodynamics of Soap." But all that time, he did not notice she was melting herself into the air, each iridescent sphere improvising its artic pilgrimage, until one day he looked up and saw that she was gone.