Berlin

We’re going to Tango in Berlin, in the bar where we met. You the nice lady called Becca who has your parents’ names tattooed on your hand. How quaint in 21^st Century Berlin, Europe’s second best city, after London. I saw your ink and knew you wanted more.                                                                                                    

I got my tattoo gun out and we became intimate, talking about our lives and dreams over your new tattoo.                                                                                                                               I won’t take any money from you but I’ll accept your love, if you want. In return I promise to love you, dance close with you and put you upon a pedestal.

People watch us, me the tattooist, you my tattooed Fraulein. We both know why we’re left alone, in the corner by the antique record machine.                                                                                           

It plays our songs.                                                                                                                                          

Your face is disfigured by shrapnel and you only have one breast, courtesy of a terrorist bomb. I love you for you and I’m glad there’s no competition trying to steal you from me.                      

We belong together.

And your new tattoo belongs in your collection. A black dragonfly flying over a blackened moon. You and me baby, in a bar called Tango located in East Berlin.