The Lover's Dictionary

abberant, adj.
"I don't normally do ths kind of thing," you said.
"Neither do I." I assured you.

Later it turned out we both had met people online before, and we had both slept with people on first dates before, and we both found ourselves falling too fast before. We comforted ourselves with what we really meant to say which was: "I don't normally feel this good about what I'm doing."

akin, adj.

I noticed on your profile that you said you said you loved Charlotte's Web. So it was something we talked about on that first date, about how much the world radiant sealed it for ach of us, and how the most heartbreaking moment isn't when Charlotte dies, but when it looks like all of her children will leave Wilbur, too.

In the long view, did it matter that we shared this? Did it matter that we both drank coffee at night and both happened to go to Barcelona the summer after our senior year? In the long view, was it such a revelation that we were both ticklish and that we both liked dogs more than cats? Really, weren't these facts just placeholders until the long view could truly assert itself?

We were paining by numbers, starting with the greens. Because that happened to be our favorite color. And this, we figured, had to mean something.

daunting, adj.

Really, we should use this more as a verb. You daunted me, and I daunted you. Or would it be that I was daunted by you and you were daunted by me? That sounds better. it daunted me that you were so beautiful, that you were so ate ease in social situations, as if every room was heliotropic, with you at the center. And I guess it daunted you that I had so many more friends than you, that I could put words together like this, on paper, and could sometimes conjure a certain sense out of things.

The key is to never recognize these imbalances. To not let the dauntingness daunt us.

indelible, adj.

That first night, you took your finger and pointed to the top of my head, then traced a line between my eyes, down my nose, over my lips, my chin, my neck, to the center of my chest. It was so surprising, I knew I would never mimic it. That one gesture would be yours forever. 

love, n.

I'm not going to even try.

blemish, n.
The slight acne scars. The penny-sized, penny-shaped birthmark right above your knee. The dot below your shoulder that must have been from when you had chicken pox in the third grade.
The scratch on your neck- did I do that?
This brief transcript of moments, written on the body, is so deeply satisfying to read.

blemish, n.
The slight acne scars. The penny-sized, penny-shaped birthmark right above your knee. The dot below your shoulder that must have been from when you had chicken pox in the third grade.
The scratch on your neck- did I do that?
This brief transcript of moments, written on the body, is so deeply satisfying to read.

yarn,n.
Maybe language is kind, giving us these double meanings. Maybe it's trying to teach us a lesson, that we can always be two things at once.
Knit me a sweater out of your best stories. Not the day's petty injustices. Not the glimmer of a seven-eights-forgotten moment from your past. Not something that somebody said to somebody, who then told it to you. No, I want a yarn. It doesn't have to be true.

love, n.

I’m not going to even try.

community, n.

You feel like you’re getting to know all the people on the dating site. It’s the same faces over and over again. You can leave for a year and then come back, and they’re all waiting for you. Same screennames with the same photos looking for the same things. Only the age has changed, mechanically adjusted as if it’s the only thing that’s passing. If you’ve gone on bad dates, they’re still there. If you’ve gone on good dates that eventually didn’t work out, they’re still there. You cancel your subscription. You sign back up. You think this time will be different.

It’s demoralizing and intriguing and sometimes sexy and mostly boring. It’s what you do late at night, when your brain has given up on all the other things it has to do–relationship porn. You scroll through. How genius to call them thumbnails, because what part of the body tells us less? (And yet, this is how I find you.)

Every now and then it would happen: I would see someone from the site on the subway or on the street, or in a bar. A fellow member of the community, but in the real world. I’d want to say, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” And I’d want to say, “Don’t I know you from nowhere?” But ultimately I wouldn’t say a word. I wasn’t sure I wanted them to be real.

juxtaposition, n.

It scares me how hard it is to remember life before you. I can’t even make the comparisons anymore, because my memories of that time have all the depth of a photograph. It seems foolish to play games of better or worse. It’s simply a matter of is and is no longer.

lover, n.

I have never wanted a lover. In order to have a lover, I must go

juxtaposition, n.

It scares me how hard it is to remember life before you. I can’t even make the comparisons anymore, because my memories of that time have all the depth of a photograph. It seems foolish to play games of better or worse. It’s simply a matter of is and is no longer.

lover, n.

I have never wanted a lover. In order to have a lover, I must go back to the root of the word. For I have never wanted a lover, but I have always wanted to love, and to be loved.

There is no word for the recipient of the love. There is only a word for the giver. There is the assumption that lovers come in pairs.

When I say, Be my lover, I don’t mean, Let’s have an affair. I don’t mean, Sleep with me. I don’t mean, Be my secret.

I want us to go back down to that root.

I want you to be the one who loves me.

I want to be the one who loves you.

„Wir haben die Oberflächlichkeit des Einanderwollens hinter uns gelassen und befinden uns nun in den Untiefen des Einanderbrauchens.“
(S. 86)

„‚Weißt du, ich würde mir ja ein Tattoo mit deinem Namen stechen lassen. Aber ich will dir die Möglichkeit nicht nehmen deinen Namen zu ändern, falls dir danach ist.’“
S. 197

„autonomy, n. Autonomie, f.
‚Ich möchte, dass meine Bücher ihre eigenen Regale kriegen’, sagtest du, und da wusste ich, dass es okay sein würde, zusammenzuziehen.“
S. 28