Dinner with the Devil

I am well acquainted with the Devil;
We dine on numerous occasions.
It’s the way he drinks his wine that gives him away,
The slightest tremble of his left hand on the stem
That belies his true intentions
While on the other hand, fingers drum
To the rhythm of original sin.
We’re seated at the same table,
The Devil and I.
The same table in the shadowy corner of a tucked away restaurant.
He’s not one for show.
Instead, he picks up his glass slowly
And sips.
I swallow smoothly as we lock eyes,
The Devil and I.
His hands leave black sticky fingerprints in tar
On his glass.
He lights my cigarette with a satisfied smirk
“Its time,”
He says slowly, savoring the words as his eyes burn red
Intoxicated by the signs of my acquiescence.

Smoke curled from her lips seductively
As she exhaled slowly,
The Devil came forth from between her lips that night
Her soul clutched tightly in his grip,
Sizzling and dripping black tar for blood.