it is interesting

the way my perspective changes
when i begin to pry your fingers away
from this dear, safe cliff i've built

wouldn't anyone see
that i am only
trying to watch you collide with the rocks

it is innocent, enough
the way i tickle your knuckles
and kiss your wrists

and mention how cold the draft is
and how warm the water must be
and how those rocks, well,

they aren't rocks at all
they are smooth mattresses,
soaked in love

and tender weight to catch
a falling desperate
such as yourself

it is interesting
the way my perspective changes
when i stand above you

instead of nearly level ground
and your fingers nail themselves down
with stubborn hope

that they could pull,
dig,
scratch and lift you higher

and it is mostly innocent,
the way my eyes hold steady
with my spade ready

to chip, scrape and
remove the cliff
around your fingers

all the while mentioning
how cold this time of year gets
especially at such a height

and all the while motioning
to the clear and lovely light below
like foil in the oven

to the warm, the water
you must be tired from the stress
of gripping, digging,

scratching cliffs
that everyone can see
and i am only

chipping round your fingernails
digging beneath your palms
tugging at your cuticles

and i wonder how much longer
you will hold
the guilt in me, controlled

to crush those bones
where knuckles bend
twist fingernails
with metal grips

and mention words i said
i warned you, i told you

where you would end
and doesn't swimming
sound so nice in warmer waters

far away from this draft
and the cold
and the cliff

and my uneven ground
that continues to split
new cuts, new rifts

this is not innocence,
and all the while i think
that the water on your cheeks

ends up down in the waves
colder now than when made
and far away from this edge

but some fingers break
and loosen, and bleed
as the others release

and i wonder
if you'd still be clutching this cliff
if mine were not the first you'd seen.