“Your mouth is a liar,” she said. She could no longer forget his teeth and the way they were like squares of concrete with someone else’s initials etched in.
“You know my mouth. It has sung to you for years. Don’t you remember the first thing you said to me on that afternoon during that month of that year?”
“I want to eat your song,” she answered.
“What happened to us?”
“Your lips trembled and you slipped fourteen lies between my lips.”
“I apologized.”
“And you left. You left your tongue on the kitchen floor of someone else’s apartment and–”
“But I got it back.”
“But it never moved the same.”
“Sometimes people need to leave in order to remember how to stay.”
“I’m looking for someone who can stay long enough to forget how to leave.”
Aimee Herman 