One night she whispered, “I’m ready to feel,” tired of pretending, tired of the steel. She kissed the moon like a prayer in the dark, and it lit up the sky with the flame in her heart. It didn’t ask her to be polite or be still it welcomed her wounds and honored her will. In that sacred kiss, generations were freed pain unraveling like forgotten seed. Her ancestors wept in the quietest tune, because she did what they couldn’t she kissed the moon.

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.