“Two In Twilight” — Salvatore Difalco

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Bluff shadow obscured your face. The moon sat above the condemned blue house threatening to nudge it over the edge. And you, beside yourself, fought something internal, maybe just the urge to let the moment get to you, as it got to me. “Why didn’t you do more?” “I was done. And no one would help me.” Bats clicked through skeletal trees. We walked on crushed stone and glass, a sound I hear now when I think of you, your silhouette keeping its own dark counsel. Up ahead the dogs trotted over old ground, now and then flashing their eyes back. “They miss you.” “But you don’t, and that makes this unbearable.”

 

 

 

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Salvatore Difalco’s work has appeared in a number of print and online journals.

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