Why are storms named after people? She was a painter and he liked numbers

You are a hurricane that sweeps me off my feet, a whirlwind of emotions that wrecks my heart's beat. My words were nothig to you, they were fallen leaves tossed around in the wind, every sight of you is like the northeast monsoon, your smell, touch and voice brings about the rush of a december's chill.

As the dewy petrichor settled on the post-rain afternoon, I still felt the emptiness that accompanies the disaster you have left. You were not only a storm but you are also the horrors that came along with it. The waves of a tsunami that threatens to breakfree out of my eyes, the rumbles of an earthquake that makes my body shiver.

An eerie stillness surrounded me, the small pitter patter of raindrops hitting the roof was a cacophonic orchestra thundering on my cloud. The storm has passed, but I haven't felt serenity. The unspoken thoughts inside my head are loud as the thunderclaps. My voice still cracks after the quake of you. I long for the sunrays of your warmth, I long for the melody of your laughter.

I still don't know why they name storms after people, maybe because after the storm. You have to remember its name. You have to remember what scars it left and this time I couldn't seem to leave yout ruins. I'm still in your dismantled hollow blocks, still in your flickering lamp posts, still in your cataclysmic downpour.

If I had to name this storm,

I'd name it after you.

My disastrous memory,

My lingering catastrophe.

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She basked in the colors of the artist's garden at giverny, the blending of the acrylics giving life to her already paint stained apron while his paper were filled with calculus and algebraic equations.

She showed her the perfect symmetry of the vitruvian but all he ever saw was translation, rotation and reflection while she saw the harmonious, beautiful proportion and balance.

They were never meant to be. She was never meant to be the anion to his cation. Ironically they were opposite but they never attract. They were constantly repelling each other.

The artist’s flaw is to find pigments for his spotless canvas, which ought to be filled with the monochrome of his numbers, of the formulas of his own vanities...he doesn’t breathe in seek of her dirty pallette.

He followed in the footsteps of Archimedes, Newton and Einstein while she focused on being better than Van Gogh, Picasso and Michaelangelo.

It took her days and months to study the pythagorean theorem just to solve the coordinates between their distance and the velocity in which their relationship would move on to.

Her artworks were slowly replaced with planes and divisions of distance over speed just to find the time of when she would stop trying to reach him, her paintbrush and canvas replaced with calculators and protractors, still her formulas never reached him.

He never paid attention to her the time she cried under the starry night, nor the great wave of a burden his algebraic equations brought into her life.

Maybe they really were two separate lines, constantly moving in parallel directions, like the opposite sides of train rails, colliding with the pressure upon them.

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