the things we see-I

Monologue of a Cliff March, 2025 She visited today, I’ve seen her kind— in a silk white dress, and a pair of scarlet lace gloves. Something soaked my sparse grass. Tear or blood? I’ve never learnt the difference. April, 2025 Her steps were particularly unstable tonight. We watched the tides together, sometimes I envy how they flow— No tears were shed tonight. (A tragedy for my grass, but good for her) I wish she would talk to me, shame that I could only listen. At least she didn’t wear gloves today. (The month escapes me. Cliffs don’t mark time anyways.) The salted wind was deafening, but I think I heard her breath. Trembling— like when an earthquake hits my core. I hate earthquakes. June, 2025 I think she forgot to visit. Good for her. June is too warm for grief. July, 2025 August, 2025 Feels like I haven’t seen her in a while. She had a daisy in her hair. We sat under the sun, her fingers coiled my grass— cold, though today burns. She talked a lot today, shared her poems, talked about her parents —they sounded gentle, for people. But then she sighed with a smile, and left in a different direction— I think this is goodbye forever.