First, he says, “Don’t make me do it”

And it’s no surprise, how we’ve learned to live and die

Whilst keeping our happiness locked inside of us.

Caged. Safe, so it can never be stolen twice,

But so difficult to find again.

 

Savored like candy,

Saying things so sweet.

His teeth mimic the picket fence of my dreams,

And the horizons of his cheeks encourage

Their own sunrises.

 

A Black man doesn’t want to blush,

Doesn’t want to rouge himself into

A life that can’t commit to him,

Life that’s barely touched rosy,

Never acknowledging the rainbows

In his people.

 

In a world that takes you down

For all the colors that you are not,

When a Black man turns brown to red,

We celebrate the mastery of his palette;

For he took another day above ground

And painted JOY.

Like that’s something

to be embarrassed about...

 

A Black man blushes,

And I pray that neither one of us

Is ever in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Time may be an illusion and yet

We are always the ones left robbed, empty-handed,

And forever searching for what was stolen.

 

I hope every muscle in your smile

Demands your seconds back.

That every upturned corner of your face

Has just as much faith in its presence as all its absences,

And every minute dodging Death’s kiss be a revolution.

 

When a Black man blushes,

I appreciate the warmth of his aura.

A humbled hug around his pride and me,

For once we ain’t out of each other’s reach.

For once,

For once...