Conversation

Lucifer sits beside me with one
blue-jeaned knee pulled up to his chest
and one lanky leg draped over the dock:
“but isn’t pain sort of 
beautiful, in its own way?”
his hair’s the kind of blonde that
holds the sunlight and his eyes
are speckled blue
(but not so beautiful because
he knows i’d be suspicious.)
“and where would art come from?”

“you’re good,” i tell him
as he picks at his guitar.

he shrugs with a small
quirk of a smile. “would you really
want to be perfect?”

“i don’t know,” i say. “i
don’t know what perfect
looks like.”

the dusky sunlight shows the
rogue freckle aside his nose and
the teeth that are slightly
(charmingly)
crooked. “why do you think i
fell?”

he doesn’t need an answer, but
my silence is one.
“you’re good,”
i say again.

“i know.”

the Adversary picks out
hey there delilah on the acoustic.
“you’d miss it.”

“maybe.”

“you’d want a minor
chord. a piece of
poetry. something real.”

“how’d you get so good at
twisting people?”

another smile.
“years of
practice.”

“maybe you’re
wrong.”

“and maybe i’m not.”

i pause.

“i guess we’ll find out.”