I grabbed your soft essence and stroked it to full length. The motions were succinct and yet exactly what I wanted to say. Did you listen? Because I won’t have the courage to tell you again.

“I miss you,” I said seductively.

I missed you in ways I didn’t know were possible to get back. I’ll admit that it was me who has depleted your honor, that no matter how much I fight it, something about me demands your submission. So I was surprised to see you here. I had never imagined a moment so accompanied by a passionate desire. I still can’t really understand. I pretended to that night. I was starring up at you, your eyes lingering, and our bodies lifted. I allowed your valor to confront my taut lips and nothing else, no further. I bowed my head and breathed our stench. We’d lay our excrements on the shore, and they’d be waiting for us there. But what derives from the world should never be wading through the sea. Do you remember? Nights we would lay our heads down, you made a steward of yourself over this very truth. But what happens if the world leaks in, can we survive it?

The flame flickered as you dragged, sucking in hard air mixed with marijuana. The smell of your froth welled up through my inhales and cooled off with each exhale. You kissed me wet and in an unoriginal circadian of motions, so I never made plans to stop. You missed me too that night. Some part of you had taken responsibility for the circumstantial hunger within us both. The facilitation of starvation, its process: the longing, the weight. I am missing everything that is in front of me, then, I was just too set on the depths we had to survive, but now floating on you feels like drowning.

It was your diffidence that repelled me. I tried to drown this part of you. I wished you’d only return to shore with you. Kissing my neck and wailing along with the quietus in my womb. I hoped for no more traces of contamination, funk, or carnal knowledge void of tamping. You wanted the same, I can feel it now even though all you did was usher me in for a kiss; a dense and plentiful profession of your love. Now I’ve come alive because you love me. But when will you reveal this powerful intuition – the one that knew I would be the woman to transform your heart? I know the ecstasy is overwhelming, but I want you to rest yourself in me.

We made plans to meet before the morning began. I had hoped that a promise of tomorrow might ignite our will to go on further than ever before. I wanted to zoom past you, to meet you on the road where my soul comes alive. You were to keep driving until you reached the nature most true to you; I wasn’t abandoning you, it was peaceful. But you didn’t bring him to me, you carried what was on the shore into the sea, assuring me no harm. He must be exposed; I must be naked. So what do you think it felt like to be polluted? This was our chance to be baptized, to travel away from unswayed and to leave behind skeptical, we didn’t require baggage, only skills that would get us to the other side, far from the former, now floating away in the ocean we couldn’t survive.

December Eighteenth

I have to let you go. It’s essential for me, almost crucial that I have you. And if I must give my love over to the possibility, uncertainty will hold my heart. I have to guard my soul against doubt. From the inevitable worry of your well being without me and fear of your resentment. Every time I see your car pass by, its a sad truth knowing that you’re not in it. Each time life becomes bearable, I must let go of the desire to bear life with you. You are locked in a tiny wooden parcel etched in gold with “prayer” written on its brim; that is where you must remain. Free from my grasp and my decision. It must be at the will of God that he plants me next to you. It must be at the will of time to decide when good enough can be sustained. You’re good enough for me. I must lock the dreams of forgiveness, rebirth, and tenacious loving for its moment of fruition. To trust in the timing of the one who holds our lives together. And should it never come to pass, should you decide you can’t love me and should the God we serve speak his final say, still my prayer would have come true. Because I will love you forever, I will always love you – despite you.

Leaving home

The further I stray from you, the more I can love you.
I need for my heart to remain unhinged,
to fail at love and discover a new way to let love in.
I need to search for you in every man I come across,
to convince them to love me so I can convince me that I am lovable despite what you’ve preached.
I need to be lovable.
I need to love myself,
despite your judgment or the people who stand on your side.
I need to be okay with you not being okay.
And that has been the most challenging decision of my life, choosing me.
And that has been the most difficult decision you’ve had to accept, the absence of me.
I need to be wrong about love
I need a loss to deepen my understanding of tenderness.
But I don’t know if your lack will bring me back to us or simply be the loss of you.
I need to find out; to be absolutely sure.
I need to know who I became with you isn’t who I am,
that I can become someone without you.
And if I must love someone else to see who I can be, that’s what I will do, to be more for you, more for me.
If you are my forever, I will always return.
You can never get lost on your way back home.

Dear Winter Love

I remember thinking so much about the cold, how winter began us, and brought our end. I remember thinking about how strong I was choosing to stand outside all alone. It became clear that the overwhelming sense of ennui that existed even in the joy of summer was you. That all this time, I was my own passion, prosperity. It confused you how I stumbled out into the cold, naked and unafraid, wild, and so sure. I realize more and more every day that I really am in no need of you. You’ve always known this (my heart is still snagged on my sleeve). It seems you had this innate need to control me. Your prideful attempts to belittle my glory are what made me leave in the end.

The freedom of your soul is now hitched to my presence because love is war, only one of us can indeed be free. When you love, you are always considering someone’s freedom over your own – but not you. You just questioned everything, demanding answers to your interrogations and only sifting through the revelations you decided to accept.
Sometimes I would pray you found someone fit to love you, and on particularly difficult days, I’d push you right into their arms. You meant everything to me, but the minute we ended our commitment, you divorced our memories and fulfilled my self proclaimed destiny: to choose me – because you never kept me warm, my winter love.

Between your world and mine

I love your body. I love how it so willingly accepts strength and yet is so powerfully afraid. I see all this when I experience you. When I lick and touch you, I feel it. Your being never embraces me for too long, as if you fear my innate softness will sog your evolution. But your distance, I don’t fear. I find ecstasy in discovering how you worship your own body and how you’ve developed a habit of escaping it all in the same breath. You fear the world in a way I never will. Being with you brings me to the ultimate consciousness of this woe, yet I am so gravely comforted to be in the presence of a man who knows his way through each canto. But we emerge from different hells. My confinement beautifying the deconstruction and of my blackness, that of which is too black and not black enough—your inferno inflicting punishment through the extermination of black bodies for the sin of involuntary proximity. Still, I crave your body, your understanding of the world. You respectfully march to the rules of the streets, and I erratically challenge every concept of society.

I suppose you think of me as exempt and fair, I see you as complacent- yet you are everything but; wisely taking care of you and your legacy, and I often feel judged in my pursuit to save the world. Everything about our nature collides, despite the way we uncontrollably contradict one another. At night, when we finish worshipping each other’s bodies, you turn your back to me more often than not. I stare intently. At first, I feel rejection, like my body, wasn’t enough for your nourishment, and you rather sleep than be fed. Now I know my intimate reality never allowed me to comprehend anything contrary to this, until you. I began thinking about your truth, reading the words your body spoke. In your world, I don’t imagine you turn your back to anyone. I guess in your world, it remains against the wall. That in your universe, turning your back could cost you the body I adore so much. Perhaps you trusted me in a way that you hadn’t trusted anyone ever – that I had your back. But now, lying next to you, I’ve become painfully aware of my inability to save either of us. That my obsessive need to wrap my body around you, allow you inside of me for your protection, and to eradicate anyone who dares threaten your body, the one I worship, isn’t enough—what a vicious cycle. But your essence has made me a better woman. The way you thrust implicitly to praise your ego gives me purpose. I honor the nights you let me heal any of your pain and come alive when you offer to alleviate mine.

There is so much space between your world and my totality. Between you and I. But there is so much beauty in our intersections. The places where you fit so perfectly. The places I take you that no one else has before. I presume you are fire and I am earth. Your body has always been in danger. My body ever used for the pleasure of others. When our flesh becomes one, I feel beautiful, and I hope this beauty is somehow enough to ease the peril of losing our bodies as a black man and woman. Because if I am to lose my body to any phenomena, it will be to the wonder of you.

This exert is inspired by the concept of the body in Ta-Nehisi Coates’ book: “Between the World and Me.”

Dear Man with the Stories

I think you were my favorite person. Of course, I could never tell you this. I always felt like an aimless gawk bird flapping and whooping for your attention, never achieving your interest.
Your entrance was like none I’d ever seen before. I didn’t know whether you were about to steal our hearts or our breaths away, you took both. You had jeans on and a white t-shirt, your grey hoody drooping down your back and arms. You sat down and didn’t speak. I looked the other direction, too scared that you might see me through overdrawn eye contact. I realize now how unrealistic my fear was – that you would never see me. You were good at telling stories. You told me one the night I met you. In the state I was in, my eyes would close, but they held onto you for dear life that night. I heard a man in your voice only to notice a little boy peeking from your eyes. The only way I can describe your face was as misery on the sunniest day. My heart soared for you. In those moments, I wanted to jump onto your lips. Not to kiss you, as I did much later that night, but to be told by you- to be a story from your mouth.

I have come to realize that I was, am, the only disillusioned one in all your fictional truths. That when thinking about us, I’ve created the most magnificent novel. We met when I was in the youngest mental state I could possibly exist at that age. Even after you stood me up, I held tight to my thoughts of you. You had existed between my legs thousands of times, and still, every time you got in my car, it felt like you didn’t know my name. Sometimes my whole body would cringe at the thought. My dear storyteller, you asked so much of me, and I gave you more than you’ll ever know. Maybe I felt like life had given you less than you deserved, and so it was justified.
Your exit was quite contrary to your becoming. Predictable, yet, erratic. I’ll never forget that night I picked you up. You didn’t look at me. I drove you around, and you asked me to drop you off. That night I went home crying. I was a slave to your never-ending epic. Why have you left me out of your story? My only hope was to debut in one of your legends, to be a photo you refused to take your eyes off of. I don’t know how to end our story, my dear fabulist. Ceasing thoughts of such a grand entrance as yours is an improbable act. But I suppose to abide in your myth, yet far from its effect is my only real chance at freedom…
The End.