The monuments fell. I’ve heard the skyline is quiet in spring. I’ve heard the city devours young men. In four walls and containment, it never sung in the same key as your golden honey. There’s no music here, but it’s still gorgeous in its own drab way. You never met me by the prison gates, it’s okay. I would never. The streets upon streets they define you, and I’d be wrong to say they look every bit as becoming on you than they do on me. Every bit of our thuggish magic is indistinguishable from your loving left hook. I still felt the pain in smashed bone. Every bit forgets, explain everything. I cut my hair and devoted myself to be never delicate. I cut the throat of every sentiment. The passion for life didn’t exist. There was only a spark from your golden fist and your golden kiss. Now I live with regrets and four walls, but it’s better to have loved and killed than never killed at all. We were Darling and Divine, what was yours was mine, the romance of crime.
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