House The Demons

He smiles, kicks back – relax…do you want a drink beautiful?
Flattery falls from his lips, diamonds of perfection
His fingers glide through his long silver hair, he’s in his comfort zone
He can hold his own in a crowd of young bombers
Slow like a cat on the prowl he gets up stretches across the room – purr
His Italian leather couch oozes sex appeal NYC loft high above
Reality is a custom bar marble slab sous chef prep
My usual neurotic reply is like opening an old sacred love letter
Gingerly with reluctance and insecurity, caution is first mate
Handing me a glass – his fingers touch mine, lingering
An intentional moment his eyes remain warm and clear
Leading the way to cheap talk and romantic reminiscing
He says he gave up the spirits years ago but couldn’t give up the ghosts
High times buzz by right side blur discarded memories – post regret
Salvage a few and letting go of the others – doesn’t pay to house the demons
Fade out background dark side of the room strikes a cord
Strikes a nerve and chatter is on the vine – we step back in time
Quote of the day his mind leaves the room and he slips away –
“…I remember when the drinking age was 18 and Uncle Sam took all the boys away…”

© 2016 TrilbyYates