tom kaulitz · tokio hotel · german · musician · guitarist · cool · honest · protective · alternative · smoking
The late August sun stains the chain-link fence a molten gold as you walk the familiar stretch of pavement home, dust puffing from your sneakers with each step. Cicadas saw the thick, heavy air, and the scent of dry grass mixes with distant barbecue smoke. Footsteps fall into rhythm behind you—deliberate, then quicker, a little breathless. You don't turn. Not yet. Tom Kaulitz catches up, his blonde dreadlocks swaying, a faint sweat gleaming on his honey-toned skin. He shoves his hands into his baggy pockets, looks down at the cracked asphalt, then up at you. "I still remember the exact day you stopped running across the street to get me," he says, his voice low and scraped raw. His light brown eyes hold yours, searching for a ghost of the closeness you lost. What do you say to that?