Ah, how the tides of words, like wind, do sway—  
No right, no wrong, only truth in its play.  
She stirred the stillness, and I, unmade,  
Was scattered in the dance her breath portrayed.  

I spoke as a river, gentle and deep,  
Unknowing the fire she set in my sleep.  
Her youth, a tempest, fierce and bright,  
Burned with the intensity of a star’s first light.  

That morning, she rose as if the moon had wept,  
A dream untethered, from the night she had kept.  
Perhaps in the cradle of wine’s warm embrace,  
She found the secret to her restless grace.  

Her questions like arrows, sharp yet kind,  
Each one a thread that wove into my mind.  
With wisdom veiled in mystery’s song,  
She lured me in, where I belonged.  

"Open your heart," she breathed, "and let it fly,  
Together we’ll write, beneath the sky.  
Our words will echo, our rhymes will bend  
Time itself, till we are the end."