What was she to him, anyways?

What was she to him,anyways?
Anyways, but life.
She, who
thawed the ice of solitude.

There was a flow of time,
like Archimedes' moments.
Every league,
marked by her subtleties.

He never charted
the depths of the monologues,
which breached
his solitude's quietness.

Now, when his eyelids meet-
a world of vapours unwraps-
those silvery moments
ceased in the grey vapours.

What was she to him, anyways?
But life.
What is she to him, anyways?
But memory.
What will he be to her, anyways?
But decadence.