her view.

candied cliff

pitch black. Your falling eyes are caught by the moonlight. There used to be trees where they stand, now just soft stumps. Her feet glide through the dampened grass until the twisted wire brings me to a stop. A fence covered by sweet pine needles and lonely branches. At first, the girl was slow to tackle this hazardous fence then a sense of competition hit her. Both of them lay laughing on the sleeping pinecones, a pain strikes through her thin calf. Stabbed at high speeds by a thin metal with nasty motives. A Boy and a girl leave the vineyard behind in search of the candied cliff. Follow them. I dare you.

The silence lays under the choir of cicadas and vibrating car engines. Listen closer. Her heart is beating in time with his footsteps, loud enough for France to hear. The edge of the cliff wraps along the river line as an invitation to follow the melted ice angel. A gentle rejection is implied when butts kiss the dirt. Looking out brings a wave of sadness. The kind of place you would imagine to see in your last moments before a tragic end. The silhouetted trees bring the sky to a navy color in comparison, headlights adding to the aesthetic.

She holds the tension between them under her tongue for several minutes. Speak. Speak. And he did. A tongue releases and she feels the cold again. The feeling is rough, hair being pulled, or the drop from someone’s arms. Next time she touches the candied soil, she must remember to bring gloves. Neglected property is shouted to her by the weeds that cover this section of earth. Before they arrived, she was told of this place in his memories. Seen only through soft words and an ever-changing picture. She always thought it would be more dramatic and bright. No, their candied cliff is dark and sorrowful. disastrous.

Now the gum sits dissolving in between her escaping teeth, soon replaced by a new collection of taste buds. She allows her hands to find the heat. Only cold and wet sensations are offered by this cruel, candied cliff. The grass and dirt are intact as if the field was cut with a blade, from field to sudden drop. Would you trust the candy that holds this many secrets? She holds an imagined picture of the harsh end that chases those who explore the Atlantic knock-off below. Maybe silk to the first touch but knives of glacial remnants will shock any disbelievers. just water. just a river.

The lost hands, found under his shirt. An audience surrounds them, the moon lights the production, the river plays a familiar soundtrack while the weeds watch with eager eyes. Concentration does not come easy in a pool of wonder. She sits in the wonder of how many have come to fix relationships, fix the bad feelings, fix themselves. Or simply to conquer a new skeleton. A pocket flashes light in competition with the moon. Above a pixelated picture, reads the numbers 9:37. The grip grows tighter as a middle finger to the time. In the candy-covered pool of wonder, time is just a suggestion.

Sweet taste followed by a sharp sting, the weeds. Although a warning sign holds besides the tree, they sit too close to the edge and too far from help. Before tonight, she could have talked for hours, talked through circles and out of tunnels. But now she knows better. The silence spoon-feeds the anticipation. To leave. To return, with new knowledge about how she needs this crushed and candied mud face cliff. Her muscles grow nervous about the possibilities that come with a perfectly imperfect string of moments. He may abandon this night with all the good nights to come. A nightmare at the place of wonder. To be forgotten.