Hopeless & Grounded

I am a hopeless romantic

with sensible shoes.

I believe in destiny,

but I also check the clock.

I can take a simple hug,

a quiet kiss pressed soft

against memory,

and stretch it into silk.

Turn it into violins

playing low

in the background

of a love nobody knew

but heaven.

Discreet.

Sacred.

Certain.

I can hold one glance

in my palm

like a prayer bead,

and rub it

into revelation.

An encounter

becomes a message.

A message

becomes a gift.

A gift

becomes confirmation

that the universe

still writes my name

in cursive.

Say something to me

with a smile—

just one sentence,

and I will make it

a monologue.

I will give it rhythm

and breath.

Let it lean

against my hip

like a slow song

playing in a kitchen

with dim lights

and sweet tea

sweating

on the counter.

That is the magic

I carry.

But don’t mistake me.

I am not naive.

I know timing.

I know circumstance.

I know

that sometimes

a thing is beautiful

because it cannot stay.

The truth

of feeling in love

is to be lost

in the clouds.

To float.

To forget gravity

for a moment.

To believe

that passion can be quiet

and destiny

can whisper

instead of shout.

I am a Black woman

who has learned

how to dream

without dropping her crown.

I romanticize

the almost.

The could have been.

The gentle brush

of fingers

that said more

than mouths dared.

Hopeless?

Maybe.

Realist?

Absolutely.

Because I know

even clouds

eventually rain—

and I am not afraid

to stand in it.