Sometimes we are meant to meet someone that exists in our lives for one night. And in this particular night, we learn that when they dance, their hips reveal the newness of their bend.
We learn that eye contact can be far more intimate than kissing or exchange of phone number.
We may learn that it is far easier to describe the ways in which gender can be experimented with for someone who never knew you before.
We also may learn that there is so much to be studied in a gesture of accidental brush of flesh against wrist.
We may also gather that tattoos can become a way in which one learns your skin’s habits.
We may also collect insight in the ways in which vocabulary is shared, thrust as a device for understanding the awkwardness of strangers.
Sometimes it isn’t necessary to exchange too many syllables or surname.
Sometimes postulating about what all this means is just a means to take away from a moment. Sometimes moments are just that: temporary.
Sometimes poets can be described as analysts or social workers winding their way toward the innards of an understanding.
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Once upon a time there that was that time you fell in love on a makeshift dance floor with mix tape prepared by fiction writers and you kept this to yourself. Then, you called yourself a dormant drug addict. Next, you compared the ritual of coffee drinking to cocaine. After that, you called your knees weak for hammocks and hip hop. Finally, you titled yourself a hippie because of your lackluster bank account and lean toward bartering. And when the evening called itself over, you walked away with empty pockets, a dry mouth and a need to walk off the burn of a human like a summer sunset.
Aimee Herman 