Jesus is my Man

Alistair and Isabel walking through London streets, gazing, oblivious to the stares of others, descending the steps as only beautiful Italian girls can. Monarchy of the walls, throwing the city's gifts through vacant windows, unaware of the stars slowing moving towards them as their shoes tap gently on the pavement.
Crushed cans littered around feet, Kings and Queens emblazoned on the scratched surface. A brick passed from one village to another, wrapped in paper and ribbon, sent to an empty motel where all the widows will one day live. Memory loss, the sun burns bright and softly against the celluloid hospital ward divide.

Water drips quietly upon the sidewalk.