What It's Like to Date. Him.

I thought this would be fun. You could call this a mirrored version of my "What It's Like to Date Me." blog.

Who is this guy I'm talking about? [Ladies, brace yourself. Fellahs, feel free to envy.] Now, if my heart could show you a photo of my love, it'd be a mix of three pictures...

First, the man with whom I was initially acquainted to: The Poet.
The creator of the sonnet, the haiku, and the prose. The man whose wit runs deeper than any other person that I've ever met. A daily pursuit of mine is to find new avenues that he'll divulge more of his mind.
He. Fascinates. Me.
Simply because I didn't realize that a guy such as he actually existed. I'd hoped...but I wasn't sure...and I am so thrilled to have a reliable open door into his thoughts. And he shares willingly with me. I see no end to his brainpower. No lid up top other than his skull. Beyond that, the sky is really the limit. He challenges me to think, examine, reflect, imagine, and dream. I am never bored by our conversation. Even in those calm moments where we say nothing, he always manages to speak to me.

"Poetry Book (Part One)"
2007

i run my hands across your poetry book.

feeling its texture

as you once did

my hands are where your hands

were

so...it's like you are touching ME.

i thumb through the pages in your poetry book.

one by one.

imagining that each new page is

as promising to me as they were to you

once

and you hold nothing back

so...it's like you're filling my empty spaces

i trace my fingers across the words written on the pages in your poetry book

left to right

block stanzas

to jagged lines

one after the other

as if my hand is holding

the pen that you held

to write these words

so...it's like you are holding me

...lay me. across your lap.

touch me. search me.

fill. complete me.

and hold me...

...like I am your poetry book.

Second, there is the one that consistently surprises me:
The Lover.
Weak knees & numb hands are just the beginning. He is unconsciously adorable and unintentionally sexy. While some ladies would turn their nose up at his wide smile, strong arms, and intuitive eyes; I could not be more lured. He tries his best as a boyfriend, but I am shocked that he cannot see how naturally the Lover inside of him flows. Now, I am not even meaning in a sexual manner, technically. Truth be told, that's a fruit we haven't yet tasted of...and yet...my experiences loving him and being loved by him tells me that he is the best lover I have ever had.

"A Hangover's Daydream'
2007

I see silhouettes of lovers holding hands, exchanging gazes, and

Merging hearts.
At this flaunt of emerging and bursting love,

I smile and I concur.

Sneaky public displays and quaint duos tangled in fondness

Only generate memories that hint at my own affair.

Warmth is meticulously duplicated inside of me

[Taken from the eyes of those who have made the same discovery

As I]

And is spread from end to end.

My wit became congested

Morphing the very spot where I stood.

Distorted and blinking I look around

Thinking I sensed his scent and

Felt the brush of his fingertips next to my cheek.

Taken aback I staggered

Drunk from affection

Inebriated due to the reminiscence of my love's presence

Lacking all sobriety

I collect each piece of my recollections of him and

Stumble my way towards the place he resides

To make our dream reality.

Lastly, the part that has come to be the foundation of our relationship: The Jedi.

My partner in rhymes. The Hip to my Hop. The Emcee to my Poet. My colleague in the Art. I'm his co-pastor & he's my constant collaborator. Our passion for love.life.lord is a source of joy and challenge. He holds me accountable and keeps me honest. Without knowing it: he teaches me lessons...above all: to remain true. Perfect? He is not, but the brokenness I see combined with the pursuit I witness inside of him, instruct me to keep going. When cultivating my own potential, I see a reflection of his. A living, breathing revolutionary. And he's my best friend.

"He.Be.Revolution."
2007

I've touched the hands

of a revolutionary.

a man.

and a catalyst

for change.

I've kissed the lips

of a revolutionary.

a force.

a potential name

for legacies.

Not one amongst

the legions of those

bound by the streets

and chained to a mindset

he pumps his fist

yes

but he's holding

a pen.

a mic.

He's the epitome

of Black Pride.

Malcolm's Pride.

Martin's Pride.

Mother's Pride.

Nonviolent ferocity.

Knowledgeable Grandeur.

Confusing the masses

Because he maneuvers just fine without

The gun on his hip

And the chip on his shoulder.

Never whining.

Pointing no fingers

and expecting no hand-outs.

He moves.

He molds.

He is.

With feet firm.

His convictions are deeply rooted.

Eyes focused.

His sights see beyond the Struggle.

His age inconsistent

of his wisdom

But oh. How his father

would be so proud. if only

his eyes were just as clear.

He doesn't just know of revolution

or hope for revolution

or front with the cap wearin' and slogan shoutin' revolution

But

He thinks revolution

Sees revolution

Speaks revolution

and

IS revolution

I'm loved by the spirit of

a revolutionary.

A heart

too good for this world.