When I baptized the Bridge in blood and champagne, when lace-frosted dresses were shredded over the railing, when she dutifully followed your footsteps over wet cobblestones, those were good times, weren’t they?
When you woke up to a mouthful of broken glass, when her eyes were the color of laughter, when the smoke from your cigarettes floated up to me, those were still good times, weren’t they?
When you pushed back the hair from her face, when you wanted to become a firework, when the city fell into night, those were good times, weren’t they?
When the amnesia couldn’t make her forget your name, when cathedral windows stained the wedding dress red and yellow, when you whispered a prayer to me, those were good times, weren’t they?
When she cried on your shoulder and when she died on your shoulder, those were still good times, weren’t they?