Like a Creature with Two Hearts
Daniel DiFranco

You were never good at climbing. Funny I thought, for a dancer I imagined you would have been. You slid down the hill after losing your footing—mud smeared palms and pants. We laughed on the way back to the car in the rain. Your hair, an extinguished comet, stuck to your face. Gray green hills. We made a point of never looking at the forecast. We checked into a hotel. Two glasses on a table. Soap wrapped in paper. A small TV and a window that looked into other windows. A courtyard below. Your sweater, the color of hay after the rain, had a hole in the elbow. We smoked cigarettes and were careful with the ashes. Our hearts had already begun to slink away, wounded animals waiting to die—waiting to stir in dream or song or the three strands of hair you left on my pillow I keep with all the foolish things—the seeds you gave me in a cup covered with foil that spilled on the floor, the necklace and promise come undone. Have I told you I still have a box locked away, filled with all the things I cannot own—things I promised I’d throw away or bury or let drift in the water?

Daniel DiFranco lives in Philadelphia. He graduated from Arcadia University with an MFA in Creative Writing. His words can be found in Smokelong Quarterly, LitroNY, and others. Full list of pubs and miscellany can be found at danieldifranco.net, and @danieldifranco.