I saw you in a dream once. I thought I was dying. Our hearts collided and your brown eyes lit the world on fire. In an instant, I saw everything I ever wanted. All that I dreamed to inhabit. Oh, how I wanted to be nothing more than the concrete to your chaos. Even as your skin dripped of culture and warmth, I found myself curling into budding sentiment. Your perfume filled the air. Jasmine, it was. With a hint of cocoa butter soul. I will never forget that smell.
I will never forget our first time. Black beauty. I swear your skin was made of magic. Dark as dusk. Smooth as night. I cannot shake the essence of your stars. How they glisten. You are city of majesty. Melanin is the gold. With the subtle elegance you ooze, you must be royalty. Built from the backs of kings and queens, there is grace in the swerve of your spine. The way it arches to every note of your soul. Angels sing at the sight. Heavenly, you are. Forgive me for boasting, but anything less would be blasphemy and I am convinced of our destiny. You have ignited a love I have long since forgotten.
Hair coiled tightly in candied courtesy, I see my future in you. The motherland of magic. Creativity pours from your womb and you give it baptism, wash it of its original sin, structure, and raise it as your own. Raise it for the throne and let it run your kingdom as rightfully so. Watch it grow old and have children of its own: music, poetry, food, and art. You are the ancestor to all that love has sparked. What fierce tenderness you hold.
Brooklyn, I live and breathe your excellence. How you have showed me a love I never sought to know. How your back breaks and bends for the ones who hold you close. Even in velvety imperfections, I worship the scars you pose. These are the stories your melanin tell.