Love is a margarita. A belief in love is love. I agree with you and I’ll fight on your side is love—when you’re probably wrong I’ll fight for your right to belong; in your anger and falsity and hope, through the worst hell in you, into the best of you. I’ll believe in you—your most outlandish stories too. I’ll tell you the truth, perhaps, even when you’re wrong. Grace when you lose your mind. You can hate me and I’ll tell you the ugly truth with soft words—ones you can hear—that soften a heart even when it wants badly to harden. When you’re fat I’ll worship you. I will kiss that ass of yours, because it’s mine. And it is mine—remember that. I want you when you’re pregnant. I want you when you’re bleeding. I want you when you need pinned down beneath heavy mass, and when you need wrapped in warmth. My heart needs to beat chest to chest with yours. My veins throb in sync with your pulse. Love is the push-pull, push-pull between us.
And maybe love is the trick of nature, a falsity who serves her own greater driving truth—survival. If she is a trick, then I love her too, and her sorcery. We should be so lucky to witness the show, edge of seat and front of row. Die to her, die to the magic. Die to the queen and honey gathered. To live above it all, to be more correct and cold in our assessment; what good is rightness at the cost of penetration? What does it profit a man to gain the whole truth and lose his soul—the soul of the honey bee. Nevermind the buzzing hive and workers and their dying to life. Nevermind the monotony and crime, we live to a queen, a false ideal and idol; and that’s how it it ought to be.
And when that dies? When we all mourn in circles and wale and wallow, but beneath we hide a grin? Why then, like the man but longer lived; off with her head and crown her next of kin.
Life is the prime mover, not the living. It’s the gathering to bring something home that is doing the doing. We think so highly of ourselves because there exist among us a few kings, but in their kingdoms—painted vases and red rugs despiting—the same winds blow; their reigns and reinas turn and wither, paper books recycled along with their myths. Not even Caesar stands, nor Alexander, nor Rome herself. All extraordinary and extraordinarily mighty, but all: bees.
Here is to the honey and these lives of ours that we pretend to govern, and to the true governor outside us all, the magician, her love, her death. Here is to the queen.