Do you remember the night we killed your parents? Their blood flowed down the road, we thought we could walk whichever way the wind blowed. On the streets we lived the dreams of the thousands and thousands of people sleeping. The steam from the roofs and rafters echoed the city’s screams. We were only seventeen and every dirty car that drove past was the sound of the Polizei and in every traffic light I could see your mother’s red-eyes. She thought you were too good to mix with the poor poor factory boy. At midnight we scaled The Wall, you were just five foot tall but you never did care for size. Berlin’s beauty and the beast, your cigarette whispered over the bricks towards the East. Your velvet touch against old carpenter’s tools, our four-poster heaven shook as the Grandfather clock beckoned its childish hands to 6. And when the moon died in the morning I stood in the doorway mourning looking back I saw a blank canvas laying unabashed above the covers as the sun streamed through the curtains painting the days light on your freckled back.
