Through the silky lattice of what, why, when;
Through the ever-forking tunnels of time;
Through the maze of causes, iron and wine;
By the burning bridges, we met again.

“Though the stream flows, nothing really changes”
I thought, as she walked again by my side.
The night's musk pervaded and conjured the sight
of a blossom that flourished for ages.

Yet all moons must set, and that is a crime:
By the neon gardens of splendor untouched
I kissed her goodbye. Right then, as I watched
how she walked away, she turned one last time.

She said: “Closure can be the beginning.”
I wished it had not; the world kept spinning.