Are You My Blues?

Blues is not just a song of sorrow. It is the language of the soul’s deepest truth. Blues is the rhythm that carries the weight of our history, the joy beneath the pain, the fire that melts the hurt and turns it into something holy. Blues is the quiet strength in a lover’s touch, the tender ache of longing and the steady beat of belonging. It is the slow dance of two hearts finding each other across time and space, a melody made of moonlight, laughter, and the soft hum of ancestors watching over us.

Are you my blues? The love that sings through my veins like an old vinyl spinning, warm and crackling with stories only we understand. Are you the soulful sound that makes my spirit sway, the quiet promise that I am seen, held, and adored without conditions? Are you the sacred groove where my soul rests, where the night hums with our harmony and the stars lean in closer just to listen?

Because I am deserving of all the richness this life can offer. Not just the surface-level shimmer of success or the calm of stability, but something more ancient, something alive. I deserve joy that feels like sunlight on melanin, slow and golden. Peace that hums like Nina’s voice, low and lingering. A sense of home that tastes like cornbread and truth. But most of all, I am deserving of love. Soul-deep, steady love. The kind that slides into your spirit like a Sam Cooke melody, You Send Me, tender and true. The kind of love that does not ask you to perform, only to be.

Because I fought for this version of me. I stood in front of mirrors and shadows, unlearning who I had to be just to survive, and remembering who I was born to become. I held my own hand through the ache, through the silence, through the slow becoming. And now, I know I deserve a love that does not flinch at the fullness of my spirit. A love that does not shrink from the brilliance of my becoming. A love that knows my worth is older than my wounds. The kind of love that feels like a Marvin Gaye groove, slow, sensual, sacred. A love that touches down like Donny Hathaway at dusk, smooth as jazz on vinyl, crackling with intention.

I want a love that carries the soul of Blackness, unbothered, unbreakable, dripping in rhythm and reverence. A love that smells like coconut oil and speaks in Erykah Badu riddles. That moves like Aaliyah in silk, floating but grounded. That speaks the language of my lineage, in looks and laughter, in fingers that know how to hold joy.

I want a love like the music spilling from a midnight juke joint, raw, alive, and wrapped in sweat and laughter. A love that moves through my bones like the bass drum calling spirits to dance, the saxophone wailing like the moon singing back to the sky. This love is ancient, a blessing carved from the cosmos itself. It is the blessing God bestowed when He scattered stars and said, “Let there be light,” and I was born into that light, destined to be real. Even the Martians had to make room for our slow dance on red dust under a blue moon, not because we merely deserve it, but because this love is as old as time.

And I want a partner who is sweet like morning honey, kind like a grandmother’s prayer, gentle as a whisper but firm like truth. A partner who does not need to raise their voice to be heard, who leads with grace and loves with depth. Someone who sees the poetry in my chaos and the sermon in my softness. A soul who protects like a storm wall and praises like Sunday service. Who knows when to cradle, when to challenge, and when to simply stay.

Our love is celestial fire and earthly grace, moonscapes where our hearts orbit each other with sacred certainty. It is a cosmic hymn that makes the stars pause and the heavens lean in closer. This love is a gift from the sky, sealed by ancestors and sung by the universe, a love so profound it makes the night sky blush and the sun slow its rise just to watch us glow.

This is the love I deserve. Not perfect, but real. Not loud, but everlasting. A love that sounds like blues turned blessing. That looks like freedom dressed in gold. That smells like frankincense and brown sugar. That holds me like I am made of every song ever sung in truth. I deserve a love written in the ink of soul, scored by the heartbeat of old gods and good music.

And I will wait for it. Because I am it. I became the rhythm. I became the story. I became the song.

And now, the universe sends me love, just like that.