my view.

candied cliff

pitch black. Your falling eyes are caught by the moonlight. There used to be trees where we stand, now just soft stumps. My 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, we were slow to tackle this hazardous fence then a sense of competition hit me. Both of us lay laughing on the sleeping pinecones, a pain strikes through my calf. Stabbed at high speeds by a thin metal with nasty motives. We leave the vineyard behind in search of the candied cliff.

The silence lays under the choir of cicadas and vibrating car engines. Listen closer. My heart is beating in time with your footsteps, loud enough for France to hear. The edge of the cliff wraps along the river line as an invitation to follow her. A gentle rejection is implied when my butt meets 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.

I hold the tension between us under my tongue for several minutes. Speak. Speak. And you do. My tongue releases and I feel the cold again. The feeling was rough, my hair being pulled or the drop from someone’s arms. Next time I touch the candied soil, I must remember to bring gloves. Neglected property is shouted to me by the weeds that cover this section of earth. Before we arrived, I was told of this place in your memories. Seen only through your words and an ever-changing picture. I always thought it would be more dramatic and bright. No, our candied cliff is dark and sorrowful. disastrous.

Now the gum sits dissolving in between my teeth, soon replaced by a new collection of taste buds. I allow my 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 cliff was cut with a blade, from field to sudden drop. In my mind’s eye, the harsh end that chases those who explore her. She may be soft to the first touch but knives of glacial remnants will shock any disbelievers. just water. just a river.

The lost hands, found under your shirt. An audience surrounds us, 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. I wonder how many have come to fix relationships, fix the bad feelings, fix themselves. Or simply just to conquer a new skeleton. My pocket flashes light in competition with the moon. Above a pixelated picture of you, 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, we sit too close to the edge and too far from help. Before tonight, I could have talked for hours, talked through circles and out of tunnels. But now I know better. The silence spoon feeds my anticipation. To leave. To return, with new knowledge about how I need this crushed and candied mud face cliff. I grow nervous about the possibilities that come with a perfectly imperfect string of moments. You may abandon this night with all the good nights to come. My nightmare at the place of wonder. To be forgotten.