Five? No, nearly six? Six years? Really? My god.

Let’s make a conservative estimate. Once, no, twice a week. A few breaks, so let’s say five years even. Five hundred twenty nights of my life. Five hundred twenty dreams about you. 

The devil stands beside an idling truck in an alleyway, light rain falling through the streetlight. He leans against the side, he turns to me and laughs. The devil knows I have smoked these three cigarettes just for his attention, the excuse of his presence. The temperature is out of control. The bar is closing. I do not have the courage to ask where the devil is going next. The devil goes home and plays violin alone. 

The devil stands next to me in an elevator, my entire maternal family waits on the roof of the building. He describes to me the history of small rocks, pleased at my recall. My brother draws blood with a bread knife.

The devil in a doorway on my birthday. O, Stay, I want to say. I don’t. It took enough pleading to get this far. I can’t will the devils skin to crawl to mine. I am mortal and I am weak. He, too. He, always.

The devil in a window in a cafe. The devil on a train in the country. The devil makes his plans to come home. I would, some old part of me should say, I would like to build a nest in your heart, despite the space between these branches, and the burning brightness of our separate skies.