Their love was as predictable as the broadcasting of the evening news. You could set your heart or your watch to its casting.
Their magic was as predictable as the weather. Knowing it simply existed was only part of the excitement. The other part, determining what the sky would wear on a given day, was dependent on whether you were witness, participant or one of the magicians themselves.
Before perfecting their performance they had been all three. Upon discovery of their hidden scrolls after they’d parted earth, none found ink to detail the tortures they must have endured within the rage and storms, smocks and cloaks weathered.
Their hearts were a visible prediction of love as their lives became their ink and all that had been hidden was never again to be found.