Why must I be such a fool? Is it my diamond patterned attire, this silly silver scepter, my hat or face paint? I can no more help the way I am than I can help an old lady walk across the surface of the moon. My feet squeak when I walk, but I have no red nose. I am not an alcoholic.
Last night, for instance, and this was not the first time, I met a woman. I mean a lady. A dream. A set of delicate lips beneath twin sapphire stars, with perfect skin and perfect breasts and the voice of, if not a nightingale, at the very least a mockingbird.
I bought her a drink, something blue, to reflect my previous mood or perhaps anticipate today’s. We talked about nonsensical things and poetry and the problems with roses. We discussed starlight and fireflies and will-o-the-wisps. When we kissed, it was such a kiss that would launch ships and start quests and break hearts both fragile and strong.
Our lovemaking was like the union of two powerful but quiet rivers, like the coming of dusk on the meadow, like the rising of great oceanic beasts from unfathomable depths. I drifted, or dropped, into sleep at dawn.
And when I woke again, as with every diamond-eyed or emerald-eyed or honey-wine-lipped lady, woman, or girl I’ve ever touched, she was gone, she and my scepter, and my pride, if ever I had any.
Always, they steal my breath, my fancy, the impression of my dreams, and any other romance or ballad or word Shakespeare ever lent me, but this I can accept, and from this I can recover. My breath, fancy, and dreams are without limit. But why does she insist upon, when slipping from my bed and from my flat and from my life, taking as a souvenir of our unparalleled and unsurpassable interlude my silly silver scepter?
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