At a bistro, that Friday eve,
even wistful chords assumed rare grace.
Dimmed lamps and worn settees,
her pallid gaze enshrouded their space.

I was tardy, twilight as ever,
I stepped in to meet her light.
The gleam of her eyes met mine,
and ere boast, I confronted my fright.

I sat on the cusp of discourse, when
the murmuring lights withdrew;
in the next breath, beneath a vaulted sky,
mist waltzed with the moon’s hue.

The city lay hushed and vacant,
as neon and sodium cascaded the streets;
crickets emerged from whispered shadows,
and I, a nomad, strolled in measured beats.

Night deepened over the town,
yet the moon burned brighter in her smiles—
each time a gentle zephyr danced,
dry leaves murmured along the miles.

Our stroll reached the radiant east,
and laughter mellowed in the gloaming, until
when I courted her,
what twilight scorned compelled us
to wander divergent labyrinths.