A-love-story

I look at you like I am about to fall along with the world that falls around me, and you look at me like you are ready to catch everything.
—  Lukas W. // And we love
What the Dragon Said: a Love Story

by Catherynne M. Valente

So this guy walks into a dragon’s lair
     and he says
why the long tale?
                 HAR HAR BUDDY
says the dragon
                 FUCK YOU.

The dragon’s a classic
the ‘57 Chevy of existential chthonic threats
take in those Christmas colors, those
impervious green scales, sticky candy-red firebreath,
comes standard with a heap of rubylust
goldhuddled treasure.
                 Go ahead.
                 Kick the tires, boy.
                 See how she rides.

Sit down, kid, says the dragon. Diamonds
roll off her back like dandruff.

Oh, you’d rather be called a paladin?
I’d rather be a unicorn.
                 Always thought that
was the better gig. Everyone thinks
you’re innocent. Everyone calls you
pure. And the girls aren’t afraid
they come right up with their little hands out
for you to sniff
like you’re a puppy
and they’re gonna take you home.
They let you put your head right
in their laps.
                 But nobody on this earth
ever got what they wanted. Now

I know what you came for. You want
my body. To hang it up on a nail
over your fireplace. Say to some milk-and-rosewater chica
who lays her head in your lap
look how much it takes
to make me feel like a man.
                 We’re in the dark now, you and me. This is primal
shit right here. Grendel, Smaug, St. George. You’ve been
called up. This is the big game. You don’t have
to make stupid puns. Flash your feathers
like your monkey bravado
can impress. I saw a T-Rex fight a comet
and lose. You’ve
got nothing I want.

Here’s something I bet you don’t know:
     every time someone writes a story about a dragon
a real dragon dies.
                 Something about seeing
and being seen
                 something about mirrors
that old tune about how a photograph
can take your whole soul. At the end
of this poem
                 I’m going to go out like electricity
in an ice storm. I’ve made peace with it.
                 That last blockbuster took out a whole family
                 of Bhutan thunder dragons
living in Latvia
the fumes of their cleargas hoard
hanging on their beards like blue ghosts.

A dragon’s gotta get zen
                 with ephemerality.

You want to cut me up? Chickenscratch my leather
with butcher’s chalk:
cutlets, tenderloin, ribs for the company barbecue,
chuck, chops, brisket, roast.
                 I dig it, I do.
I want to eat everything, too.

When I look at the world
     I see a table.
All those fancy houses, people with degrees, horses and whales,
bankers and Buddha statues
the Pope, astronauts, panda bears and yes, paladins
                 if you let me swallow you whole
                 I’ll call you whatever you want.
Look at it all: waitresses and ice caps and submarines down
at the bottom of the heavy lightless saltdark of the sea
                 Don’t they know they’d be safer
                 inside me?

I could be big for them
     I could hold them all
My belly could be a city
     where everyone was so loved
they wouldn’t need jobs. I could be
the hyperreal
post-scarcity dragonhearted singularity.
     I could eat them
     and feed them
     and eat them
     and feed them.

This is why I don’t get to be a unicorn.
Those ponies have clotted cream and Chanel No. 5 for blood
and they don’t burn up like comets
with love that tastes like starving to death.
     And you, with your standup comedy knightliness,
covering Beowulf’s greatest hits on your tin kazoo,
you can’t begin to think through
     what it takes to fill up a body like this.
It takes everything pretty
and everything true
     and you stick yourself in a cave because
your want is bigger than you.

I just want to be
the size of a galaxy
so I can eat all the stars and gas giants
without them noticing
and getting upset.
Is that so bad?
                 Isn’t that
what love looks like?
                 Isn’t that
what you want, too?

I’ll make you a deal.
     Come close up
stand on my emeraldheart, my sapphireself
the goldpile of my body
     Close enough to smell
everything you’ll never be.

Don’t finish the poem. Not for nothing
is it a snake
that eats her tail
and means eternity. What’s a few verses worth
anyway? Everyone knows
poetry doesn’t sell. Don’t you ever feel
like you’re just
a story someone is telling
about someone like you?
                 I get that. I get you. You and me
we could fit
inside each other. It’s not nihilism
if there’s really no point to anything.

I have a secret
down in the deep of my dark.
All those other kids who wanted me
to call them paladins,
warriors, saints, whose swords had names,
whose bodies were perfect
as moonlight
     they’ve set up a township near my liver
had babies with the maidens they didn’t save
     invented electric lightbulbs
     thought up new holidays.
                             You can have my body
                             just like you wanted.
Or you can keep on fighting dragons
writing dragons
fighting dragons
re-staging that same old Cretaceous deathmatch
you mammals
always win.
                 But hey, hush, come on.
Quit now.
You’ll never fix
that line.
                 I have a forgiveness in me
                 the size of eons
                 and if a dragon’s body is big enough
                 it just looks like the world.
                           
                             Did you know
the earth used to have two moons?

Once upon a time there was a crooked tree and a straight tree. And they grew next to each other. And every day the straight tree would look at the crooked tree and he would say, ‘You’re crooked. You’ve always been crooked and you’ll continue to be crooked. But look at me! Look at me!’ said the straight tree. He said, ‘I’m tall and I’m straight.’ And then one day the lumberjacks came into the forest and looked around, and the manager in charge said, ‘Cut all the straight trees.’ And that crooked tree is still there to this day, growing strong and growing strange.
—  Tom Waits, Wristcutters: A Love Story
I always knew that he was a boy I wasn’t going to know forever. The parting of it, the ending of it, was inevitable and that idea made me panic whenever I thought about it. And you know, before that would have made me sad, and I would have moped, and stayed in my room. But instead I chased after him. Not because I was trying to convince him to stay, but because I wanted to have as many memories of him as I could. I wanted to appreciate what I could have. So I did. We made so many memories together. I especially remember every time he laughed. He was so easy to make laugh it surprised me, because I didn’t think I was funny. I moved away that summer. I thought that would be the last time I spoke to him. I got my first letter from him a week later. He told me he would wait for me to come home.
—  a love story #1 // lily rose.
True love isn’t always about big romantic gestures.
Sometimes it’s about sympathizing with someone whose tea has gone cold or reading together and sharing a quilt. When two people move in together, it soon becomes apparent that the little things mean an awful lot. The throwaway moments in life become meaningful when you spend them in the company of someone you love.
—  Philippa Rice
A (mostly) true love story

I was never particularly concerned about online bots figuring out my interests from my internet habits until I got a facebook friend request the other day from a clearly fake account but with a profile picture of a very attractive woman with light brown hair playing harp on a beach at dusk. She wore a purple gown which matched the sky, and you could see her hair blowing slightly in the sea air in the photo, lit partially by the dying sun and and a nearly-incandescent moon.

The account had an assortment of randomly-generated, but pleasantly eclectic, liked pages, consisting mainly of classical music and art. Many of which I myself had frequented but others I’d never heard of—but all revealed personality details of a woman I would like to spend hours getting to know. That is, if she weren’t a string of ones and zeros intent upon stealing my credit card and social security number.

I mean, that bot seemed like it was created for me. Some phishing program knows my type even better than I do. It KNOWS me, I thought.

It was such an impressive effort, I couldn’t bring myself to delete the friend request. Instead, I let it hang there, half hoping it would dangle there in the queue forever, next to my mother’s work friend and that guy who I think I meant once but only has two mutual friends with me.

A few hours later, I checked the requests again, only to find it had vanished, like the strains of the harp floating in the wind. The profile, too, was gone, as if it had all been a strange dream brought on by a combination of late-night internet browsing, harp concertos, and sleep deprivation.

But it wasn’t. It was real, and I remember. 

HarpBot, my love—I will always remember you.