One cannot plan the space between hours. All of these breaths are abstract performance pieces; you can watch and take notes.
Sip wine while photographing what you think all this might mean. Or. You can walk outside, sit in the earth’s lap and read Adrienne Rich poems to each other to learn about why all this happens.
You may be on a search for love but it’s been stuck to your skin like a birthmark before you were even able to pronounce such a word. And every human has been different. And their music deviated within each strand.
You may find comfort with a human in the darkness of a barroom bathroom, while pretending their body is yours. Their parts.
You may kiss a poet beneath the flickering moonlight on a night birthed just for that kind of moment. And then, write a song that speaks on the pull of doorframes and archived fonts.
Love is a collision of bones. Love is the ISBN you tattoo on your neck because it resembles the lines from your favorite book. Love is when she bats her eyelashes against your wrist and reminds you that scars are actually coordinates, not regret.
No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees, sycamores blazing through the sulphuric air, dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding, our animal passion rooting in the city. ….Adrienne Rich.
Aimee Herman 