The devil wore black framed glasses
and had a New England accent when he was drunk.
The things the devil could do with his tongue,
the beautiful promises he'd whisper late at night…

The devil loved like a hurricane.
My roots were sturdy, never bending in his storm.
When the devil made love it was consumption.
I'd never been so seen, so adored.

Beneath his steel exterior the devil was soft
and a little broken.
But he could heal my wounds
with the promise
of a gentle hand.

I've never been a believer,
but for a time I worshiped at his altar.
Our Garden of Eden looked like cracked cement and Midwestern grey skies.
The trees bore no fruit,
but we made our own sweetness.

Eventually though,
the cost became too much
for us to remain that high.

I dug my fingers into wounds from his clipped wings.
Echoed his worst fears back to him.
His hurricane turned into an earthquake
and shattered the ground at my feet.

We spiraled into darkness.
Able to feel each other
but afraid to ever be too close again.