Alone in the city of melancholy, I feel the street sides smoldering my hazy eyelids. At night the moons of lanterns touch me only marginally and wing cracked moths circle the illuminated edges of the panel building's decayed balcony - gentle; endlessly. Infinite depths of gray beneath the stone canyon skin of 1980's asphalt-wrinkled face of my ardently antagonized Berlin.
The skies gleam soft, spun by cloudy filaments; Seven vertical contrails, pearlwhite, pale; Our time together; liquid, trickling away, the color of alabaster, corundum, topaz - and you have gone lost, in our broken hourglass.