The Devil or The Drinking

The Devil or The Drinking

it's just the way I am.

The devil, played in this story
but my hands, takes hold
of a cigarette, light from the tiny
burning furnace outlining your pristine face,
as God, played here by my sense
of conviction, tells you to stay.

it's always like this; the dark ones burning bright.

You stay -- I smile. The cigarette burns.
God and the Devil both win tonight.

When you're sleeping, I go out for a walk
among the stars at eye level, feet pressing
hard on the sidewalks made of tin, as
light from the moon reflects in my tired eyes.
Sometimes, it's the small victories.

I step into the Indigo bar.

Statuesque women, relics from Ancient Greece,
and me, pouring whiskey back, past the fences
I put around God and the Devil, letting them
sort things out for awhile. My heart wanders
back to you, putting the pieces back in my wallet.

You woke up while I was out -- made toast.

You cradled my head, sick and drunk and
never sure which came first, the Devil
or the drinking, God or the guilt, laying on the
cool tile floor, blurry bathrooms of my hopeless heart,
not thinking about you at all, your touch
not touching me, physics gone awry in the whiskey slur.

I tried to say