“I felt you on my tongue.”
“How’d you know it was me? Describe my weight in shapes and sounds.”
“I’d know your soprano-turned-tenor touch anywhere. And weight? Well, I wound up having a difficult time lifting any words off of me due to the heft of your musculature. The weather channel called you significant.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Burgundy and drizzled with cooking wine.”
“Do you mind if I stay?”
“Even as I swallow this last bite, I yearn for more. I’m ok with my shape changing because it’s from so many meals with you.”
“Is this an offering?”
“More than that. This is a stop sign.”
“So we can title this a collision of red?”
“Or a photographic collage of love letters drifting between an eight minute commute of disjointed language and what happens when you fall in love with your pen pal and woo them in cross-outs, haiku and elipses.
Aimee Herman 