Edges

Triangular stretches of moonlight outline the precipice, ghost spotlights as she stands at the edge, bent at the waist, white fingers tracing stray hairs, surveying the contents of the earth below.

If the world were flat she could see her path. But as it is, crags and bends and redwoods and dips and her own distorted shadow disrupt the view even from this height.

Purple darkness. She is a fly on flypaper, gravitating toward the sticky sweet poison on wet evenings, hopelessly stuck. Limbs spasm in a vain attempt to be free.

The air is deep, like his eyes. A thousand moments can be smothered in a single breath. She inhales, exhales, inhales. Control.


...
Solitude. I love solitude. The mundanes of existence are both amplified and stifled with the stillness. I see that I am not falling apart. I am simultaneously enjoying the scenery from above and contemplating the blind plunge.

I will not be swept away. Forgive me in advance for distancing myself. This is the only way I know how to handle things.