Then kiss me and I’ll adore you under the light of a thousand stars.

-J
 NOT ONLY
ON THE 14 TH
ANTHOLOGY
 04:41

SOMETIMES, WHEN YOU’RE WITH HER, you ask yourself, Is this love? Not because
you doubt, but because you can’t quite believe how it feels. The question lingers, just
enough to make you pause, not that it changes anything. It’s a mere whisper in your
mind, a quiet reassurance. You already know. It has never occurred to you that love can
make you feel this profoundly—without redemption, without hope, yet entirely
fulfilling. It's like the echo of a past you can’t touch and a future that feels somehow
inevitable.

You wonder, Is it love if it’s timeless, unconditional, pure in its worth? Or is it love when
you give without the expectation of return—like an extended handshake, a gesture that
lives in the air, unclaimed, and yet whole in its giving?

You try to escape those thoughts, to push them aside, but they cling to you. And then,
just as quickly, you surrender. You settle into the now. And, strangely, love is
happening to you. It doesn’t wait for you to catch up. It simply arrives. For the first time,
it has found you—and with it, it brings a strange comfort, a quiet answer to the longing
in your chest. Love is making up for your loss, you think, and you can almost hear the
universe sighing with relief at the fulfillment it has brought to your life.

You’re happy—no, more than happy—that you have connection, that you can feel the
warmth of love without the pressure of it being anything more than this. You feel
fortunate to know the sweetness of a distant love. Kindness flows both ways between
you, and in return, you are kind. You owe it to this love—for showing up, unbidden, for
being here, and you feel a deep, quiet gratitude. You are indebted, forever, to this
kindness that has come to you not when you were ready, but when you needed it most.

Again, you’re back in the moment. The world around you falls away, and all that
matters is her. She sits beside you, and you hear the rain falling outside. But it's almost
like you’re not hearing it; it's just part of the world you’re in together. The sound of the
rain—it’s a story. A story you wish you could tell her, one that unfolds in slow,
deliberate drops, each one carrying with it the weight of love’s journey. You want to
remind her of this story, to show her how love grows, from something tiny and delicate
into something so vast and true that it changes you forever.
You watch her, a quiet smile creeping up as she stretches her hands toward the rain,
laughing softly as it splashes on her skin. It’s like she’s rediscovering something pure—
something untarnished by the world. Her face, her eyes, like the smile of a child, bright
with joy, untouched by the burden of time. In that moment, you feel something inside
of you stretch, like you’re growing right beside her, the love you share blooming in
tandem.

Sometimes, when the rain slows down, you let the music of your heart take over. You
step into it, feeling its rhythm rise up within you. It fills the space left by the fading
raindrops, and suddenly it feels like the only sound that matters. The sound of you, of
her, of this—this love, this moment.

She rests gently in your arms now, the weight of her body fitting perfectly against you.
You look down at her face, and suddenly, you understand something that once seemed
impossible: weakness to a woman wasn’t a terrible thing. Especially not to this one.

Because in her eyes, you see a battle you would willingly lose. And in her voice, you
hear a secret you would gladly listen to forever, even if it set you on fire.

It’s nearing the anniversary of the day you first met—two years, six months, twenty-
four days, twelve hours, and seventeen minutes. But the exact passage of time doesn’t
matter. What matters is the first time you saw her and the feeling that exploded inside
of you—Where have you been? Your heart was already hers, waiting. And asking her to
be your girlfriend—it felt like a formality, a detail. She had already been yours in some
cosmic way, even before you knew it.

You look at her again, and you realize, In her eyes, I see all the love the universe can hold.
It’s as if she is not just hers but a gift from something greater. You see Yah. And with
her, you see His daughter—delivered to you, entrusted to you. You feel it, deep in your
bones. This is what you were born for. To love her. To cherish her.

And in this moment, as the rain taps against the window, you realize that love—true
love—isn’t about seeking anything in return. It’s not about finding the perfect fit. It’s
about understanding that, in her gaze, in the space between your words and the silence,
you have already been given everything. Everything you need.
 MY RIB

THE FIRST DAY, THE first of everything. Adam and Eve. Adam’s first night on earth,
when he lays down to sleep. He may have thought this is it, it’s over. He doesn’t know
what sleep is, this new sensation when everything in his body is slowly shutting off for
the day. His eyes are closing and he thinks he’s leaving the world. Only he isn’t. He
wakes up the next morning and he has a fresh new world to work with, but he has
something else too. He has yesterday.
Like Adam every night might seem like the end, when we tell each other
goodnight and like Adam I can’t imagine what his first dream was but mine is with you
in paradise. But with her the first night was very similar to Adam, the new feelings, the
uncharted territories, the fear, the excitement, the unfamiliar thrum in my chest, soft
and gentle like a palm tree with coconuts.
Eve is introduce in the picture when Adam wakes, a slight dizziness, a hollow space on
his side. He goes about his day when he sees her, breathe in his throat, tongue stuck in
his mouth. The hollowness seems to be recognizing that that was on here. He stretches
his hands and she does the same, he thinks that this is the craziest thing that has
happened since the first time he slept. He takes a front step she does too, he stops wide
eyed, she looks at him and she sees it’s him I was made for and I know it but because he
has a slower brain let him have fun.
She was the one who spoke first, Adam dashed to the trees seeing this is something new
he hadn’t ever seen or heard. Angel Gabriel had to convince him that Eve was made
from his side, he shouldn’t be afraid.
The first day for Eve was interesting, a crazy man that when I see him, I’m naturally
feeling a thrum to be close to him. No matter how interesting he was.
Adam was always careless with the flowers, but here comes a flower that makes him
not live a highly careless life like he did before.
The day Eve ate the fruit, he had gone to tell his lion, tigers and cheetah friends that he’s
cutting them off, no more play fighting, no more running into flower fields to trample
on them.
 Can I Call U Tomorrow?
Tomorrow’s Promise

The letter arrived on a quiet Tuesday morning, the sun barely peeking through the thick
tropical leaves outside, casting gentle shadows across the room. It was tucked among
the usual pile of bills, its edges worn and frayed, sealed with a wax emblem that didn’t
quite fit with the present world. When Ngozi saw the name written in bold script—To
My Dearest Ngozi—her heart skipped a beat.

She opened the envelope, the scent of old paper and ink mingling with the familiar
smell of incense that lingered in her home. As she unfolded the letter, the words at the
bottom jumped out at her, Can I call u tomorrow?

Ngozi’s hands trembled. The handwriting was unmistakable—Chijioke. She hadn’t seen
his handwriting in years. Could it really be from him? Her thoughts rushed back to the
vibrant days of youth, to when she and Chijioke shared the hot, heady air of the city,
surrounded by the hum of people, the songs of birds in the trees, and the endless
horizon of dreams.

The first time he asked that question had been under the great baobab tree by the river.
The golden African sun had painted the sky in streaks of orange and purple. Chijioke,
with his warm smile and easy charm, had taken her hand, his fingers interlocking with
hers.

“Can I call you tomorrow?” he had asked, his voice soft as the wind rustled through the
tree’s ancient branches.

Ngozi had smiled, her heart swelling with love. She never thought they would be
separated by time and fate. But life had its own plans, and after that summer, they had
been torn apart by the distance between their families, by the harsh realities of life.
Years passed, and she moved on, but Chijioke’s voice had never left her thoughts.

She blinked and looked down at the letter again. The date was impossibly old, the
handwriting as clear as it had been the day it was written. Can it be? Ngozi thought. The
letter seemed to belong to a time long gone. Could this really be from him?

She reread the words, each syllable like an echo from her past, a promise that had never
quite been forgotten. The soft thrum of the phone’s vibration brought her back to the
present. Her heart leapt in her chest when she saw the unknown number flashing on
the screen.
Her breath caught. It couldn’t be. She answered, her voice barely above a whisper,
“Hello?”

A familiar voice came through the receiver, warm and gentle, just as she remembered.
“Ngozi?” it asked. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. The connection was brief, but that voice—the same voice
that had once whispered promises under the baobab tree—was real. Her hands shook
as she clutched the phone, her heart pounding in her chest. “Chijioke?” she asked, but
the line was silent.

She sat, frozen, for what felt like hours. The words, Can I call you tomorrow?, echoed in
her mind, as real as ever. Could it be that the love she had lost had found its way back
to her?

Days passed, but the question lingered. She found traces of him in her dreams—his
laughter, the way his eyes lit up when he saw her. It felt as if he was right beside her
again, though she knew better. In the morning, she would find small notes tucked into
books, messages in the margin of old journals, reminders of the promise he had made
long ago.

Tomorrow, he had said. Tomorrow, she believed. She spent her days wondering if the call
would come again.

And then, it did.

Ngozi answered the phone with a smile, a quiet certainty in her heart. “Chijioke?” she
asked, her voice steady.

“Yes,” came his reply, his voice richer, deeper, like the sound of drums at dusk. “Can I
call you tomorrow?”

This time, the words didn’t feel like a question. They were a promise. A promise that
had waited years to be fulfilled. Tomorrow wasn’t a distant hope anymore. It was now.
It always had been.

And so, the story of Ngozi and Chijioke continued, not bound by time or death, but by a
love that had endured and flourished through all things. Tomorrow was no longer
something that would come—it was already here.
Life is yours, death is mine
Peace is yours, stress is mine
Happiness is yours, sorrow is mine
Everything is yours
But you are mine.

For Better, For Worse. Those words hadn’t even been spoken yet, but they felt like a
promise already made. It wasn’t a vague vow—it was a conscious decision, a choice to
choose each other every day. Love wasn’t a fleeting thing to them; it was a quiet,
constant force, something they held close.

For better, for worse, they knew they were each other's.

SHE:

I remember when we first started dating. I knew it from the moment we met. I was
going to marry him. Even if he didn’t know it then, I did. But I didn’t tell him. I didn’t
rush it. I let him figure it out on his own, move at his own pace. I knew his story. I knew
what kind of past he carried, and trust me, it wasn’t an easy one. Mine wasn’t either.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Life has a way of bringing people together when they least
expect it. And suddenly, even the most complicated stories seem to have a way of
weaving into each other.

Sometimes, I liked to mess with him. It was like a game. We were still young, still
learning about love, about each other. And one day—well, I couldn’t resist. He’d been
planning this outing for weeks, and I decided I’d cancel it on a whim.
I texted him, told him my parents had said no. He panicked. I could already feel his
frustration before I even looked at my phone. So, I stood at the corner near my house,
watching him through the wooden fence, seeing him pacing back and forth, trying to
figure out what had gone wrong. He had really been looking forward to this day, so
doing that to him I knew would make him go mad.

He started laughing after a while off wheels turning inside his brains—loud, wild, like a
man who had lost his mind. He grabbed a stone, ready to knock on my gate with all the
force he could muster. My days, this guy was too much.

I had to stop him.

When I came out and saw him standing there, his eyes were wide, his heart in his
hands, but there was something more. It was need – like oxygen kinda love. It wasn’t about
the drama, the game—it was just him, and it was just me, and it was already there.

Looking back at everything we’ve been through—the good, the bad, the ugly—there’s
only one thing that matters now: For better, for worse, I choose him. Always. No matter
what.

HE:

They say everything’s written, and maybe it is. I’ve always believed that somewhere,
somehow, it was written that her name would be next to mine, that my last name
would follow hers. The thought of a life without her—it feels impossible now. I don’t
even remember it. It doesn’t matter, because she’s here.

Her arms are the only place I want to be. For better, for worse. Her eyes are the only
ones I want to get lost in.

I made my decision long before I ever said it aloud. I chose her. She started out as a
thought, a whisper in my mind—How could I ever be enough for someone like her? I was
just a simple guy, with nothing much to offer. She was a princess, coming into my life
and flipping it upside down.

She became my morning sun, my brightest star. All my good news, all my joy—it
started and ended with her. But all she ever asked for, all she ever wanted, was my
devotion. She just wanted us to last forever. That was enough.

I’ve never thought I was worthy of her, but I’ll try for the rest of my life to become the
man she deserves. I’ll spend my days showing her that I’m worth it.
She scared me, in the best way. I could tell her more without saying a word than I’ve
ever dared to say out loud. It’s like she knew me, deep down, better than anyone ever
could. She became the friend of my mind, the one person who heard my silence.

With her by my side, I’ve achieved more than I ever could on my own. Isn’t that what
love is? It’s not about completing each other. It’s about growing together—more than
you could have ever imagined, through the art of mutual giving, of sharing.

For better, for worse. I knew it long before I ever said those words at the altar. They had
already been written in my heart, even before I made the vow.
A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.
—Solomon

We had been friends for life—like comrades in war. We survived while many others
had not. That’s Oti and me. We first met back in the day, during my player phase, when
we thought flirting and having countless girls trailing us was a flex.

We belonged to separate groups but often crossed paths during our "girl-hunting"
excursions at malls and concerts—where the finest prey could be found. Oti and I just
clicked, and before long, we became a duo, separating ourselves from the rest.

I can proudly say I found a brother in him, literally. The adventures we had, the
punches we threw, the way we had each other’s backs—we were witnesses to each
other’s lives. Best men at each other’s weddings.

And then…

Love has a powerful way of creeping into your life unexpectedly, transforming you,
revealing sides of yourself you never knew existed—the good and the bad.

Between us, I always thought I was the romantic one. But when Naserian entered Oti’s
life, oh my—my boy became Shakespeare, the Luther Vandross of our generation. I had
never seen someone fall so hard until I saw my friend lose all reason. His tongue got
stuck at the bottom of his lips the first time we met her one evening. For days, Oti
couldn’t walk in a straight line—drunk in love. The eater between us suddenly had no
appetite. The stinky one—who, if not for the brilliant mind that invented roll-on, would
have gone four days without showering—suddenly began bathing daily, like a Father’s
mass prayer at six o’clock.

Fast forward to Oti finally dating Naserian. He swore he would marry her. As per
cultural tradition, there was one requirement he hadn’t met—I never knew he wasn’t
cut. That is, until Naserian’s family demanded it before consummating the marriage.
Oti went through with it. And being a grown man, he had to nurse himself back to
health, but Naserian would secretly bring him home-cooked meals, which he loved and
care for him.

I had never seen happiness radiate from someone’s face the way it did in his life and on
his wedding day.
Then, Naserian became pregnant. Oti was ecstatic to be a father—we all were. Watching
my brother's life change before my eyes felt like witnessing a living autobiography of
love, growth, and friendship.

Then, the day came.

Naserian was in the hospital. Oti was restless.

She was in pain—the doctor said there was a complication, and surgery was necessary.

Oti was worried. We all were.

The baby was born. A girl.

Naserian was gone.

Oti’s life changed forever. He was not the same. He never would be. He named the
baby after her mother—Naserian. My heart.

At the burial, we stood by the coffin of his love, on the same day, years before, when he
first met her. My friend, my brother, was in pain—a Shakespearean tragedy in real life.
Like Romeo left behind with a little Juliet—a constant reminder of the love that once
was.

He barely spoke, but when he did, his words lingered in the air like an echo of grief:

“With an ocean full of words, with the sky full of its clouds, the days without you bleed
together until time is nothing more than an obstacle I must overcome until I meet you
again.”

Oti was a broken thing, and the only thread holding him together was his little
Naserian.

A millennium later, when we were old and bent with time, just a few days before Oti
passed from old age, I nudged him, asked him why he never remarried.

He looked into the distance, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I told you—and her—that she was the only one for me. The only thing I was made to
take care of, from Heaven and back. And there, I’m going.”

People say they ‘’find’’ love, as if it were an object hidden by a rock. But love
takes many forms, and it is never the same for anyone. What people find is a certain
love. Oti found a certain one with Naserian, a grateful love, a deep love and a
transitional love, one that he knew, above all else, can never be replaced. Once she’s
gone, he let the days go stale. He put his heart to sleep till the day he finally slept with a
smile on his face ready to meet his heart.
He was cut into angles with no rounding to soften his person, this went for the inside
too. He was carved out of the world with the sharpest edges, his demeanor as direct as
his gaze. There was an intensity to him that spoke of a life lived in constant motion,
constantly evading anything that might soften him, even in the quietest of moments.

There’s an unfairness of life that I’ve noticed, others grow and live the softest of life,
while for some, softness seems like a cock-and-bull story. While others get membership
to gyms to build their bodies, for others, life itself is the gym—the hardest training you
can be offered.

He was like that. The world had shaped him into a fortress of angles, its toughest, most
unforgiving trainer. There was no room for indulgence in softness. Every corner of his
existence had been honed by hardship, no buffer to shield him from the world’s cold
blows. But beneath that hardened exterior, I couldn't help but notice something—
something raw, something that called to me.

I was Star, and from the moment our paths crossed, I saw him—his hard edges, the
walls he built around himself. His eyes were cold, distant, as though he was a man who
had perfected the art of being alone. I could see it then, a part of him that still longed for
something more, something that wasn’t shaped by survival. I saw it, even though he
couldn't let anyone close enough to touch it.

And still, I was drawn to him. His silence was magnetic, the way his posture held a
world of unspoken thoughts, the way he carried himself like the weight of every storm
he had weathered in his life. I knew that there was more to him than just the sharp
edges he showed the world. Beneath it all, there had to be softness—a tenderness
buried so deep it would take a lifetime to uncover.

In the days that followed, we found our way into each other's lives. I grew used to the
hardness of him, the strength in his silence, the weight he carried on his shoulders. Jowi
taught me the kind of strength that only comes from enduring the hardest parts of life.
And in return, I showed him that softness didn’t always mean fragility. Sometimes, it
meant resilience—the courage to stay open even when life had taught you to close off.

Our love wasn’t about making him softer, about rounding his edges. It was about
learning how to exist in each other’s spaces. It was about finding the courage to see the
untold parts of him—the parts that had been hardened by the world—and allowing
those parts to be loved, even when they didn’t fit into the molds we’d expected.

I couldn’t change him. But as time went on, I started to believe that maybe love didn’t
need to soften him. Maybe it was about finding the beauty in his unyielding strength,
the warmth in his hidden fragility, and simply letting him be—He, my sharp-edged,
unbreakable love.
 Tell Me I’m Home

HE HAD ALWAYS BEEN A TRAVELER OF SORTS—drifting from place to place,

searching for something. What, he never knew. A purpose, perhaps? Or maybe a place
to simply be. In all his wanderings, he had convinced himself that home was a concept
for those who were tethered to something, rooted in places, people, or beliefs. He had
none of these things, and so he traveled, never expecting to find a place that felt like
home.

One evening, while the light of the setting sun painted the sky in fiery shades, he found
himself in a small café tucked in a quiet street. He had wandered in on a whim, seeking
nothing more than a cup of coffee and a fleeting moment of stillness. His eyes scanned
the room—empty, save for one person.

She sat at the corner table, her presence so captivating that it felt as though the world
had conspired to keep the spotlight solely on her. Her hair cascaded around her face
like a river of warmth, and her eyes—those eyes—held the kind of depth that could
drown a person if they weren’t careful. There was something about her gaze, something
in the way she looked at the world, that seemed to slow time itself.

He wasn’t sure why, but there was an undeniable pull. It wasn’t just her beauty—
though that was certainly magnetic—but the way she seemed to hold all the answers to
questions he had never asked. The philosopher inside him stirred, contemplating the
paradox of it all. How could one look from a stranger make him feel as though he had
arrived at the very place he had been searching for so all along?

His feet moved before his mind could catch up. He found himself at her table, unsure of
what to say or why he was even there. She looked up, her eyes locking with his. There
was no hesitation in her gaze, no shyness. It was as if she had been waiting for him, for
this exact moment.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice soft yet firm, like someone who had long ago
learned how to command attention without trying.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. It was as though his thoughts had
abandoned him, leaving only an overwhelming feeling of being seen.

“You look like you’re lost,” she said, tilting her head just slightly, a smile playing at the
corners of her lips.

Lost? He almost laughed. He wasn’t lost. He’d been drifting for so long that the idea of
finding a place to belong seemed absurd. And yet, in that moment, as she stared at him
with an intensity that felt almost familiar, he realized something. He wasn’t lost—he
was simply waiting for something to ground him, to make the wandering make sense.

“I think I have been,” he said, finally finding his voice, though it sounded distant,
almost as if the words weren’t his own. "Waiting for something to make me... stop."

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You’re waiting for home, then?”

He froze, the question reverberating in his mind. Home? The word felt foreign, an
abstract idea he had never truly understood. He had always thought it was a place—an
address, a city, a country. But now, in her gaze, he felt the walls of all the places he had
been collapse.

Home, he realized, wasn’t a location at all. It wasn’t a thing you could find by traveling,
or by seeking answers. Home, he thought, might just be a feeling—a sense of being
where you were meant to be. And in that fleeting moment, as he stood before her, he
realized he had already found it. Not in the places he had wandered, not in the fleeting
moments he had collected, but in her eyes, in the way she saw him not as a stranger, but
as someone worth understanding.

“You,” he whispered, his voice a little more certain now, “I think I’ve found it.”

Her smile widened, a knowing glint in her eyes. “It was always there. You just needed
to look a little closer.”

And there, in the simple exchange, he understood. Home wasn’t a place at all. It was the
recognition that we are seen, truly seen, by another. It’s the moment when the chaos of
the world falls away, and the only thing left is the certainty that, for once, you are
where you belong.

In the reflection of her gaze, he realized that home wasn’t something you found. It was
something you felt—when the world stopped being a collection of places and became a
space where two people could simply be.
At The End of The Universe
 UNDER THE WARM lights the air is filled with soft mellow music, the heart
sways with every single rise of octaves, the blood thrums in recognition of another. Two
pairs of hands holding each other in the most tightly, soft way possible. Her head
resting on his chest as the sway back and forth.
The music seems not to be coming from the system but from within their bodies.
Telling of love and sweet nothings. Eyes held eyes like hands. In a room full of people
it’s as if it’s only them.
“I’m so in love with you, I hope you know…,’’ he whisper sings softly behind her
ears, the place he’s sure she got sensitivity, and he loves how her body gently shudders.
In that moment he felt every single speck of the stardust in his bones, was
tingling with life. Like every part of him, that came from a dead star was alive again.
“…when you’re with meee…da da…the stars, and the moon…the day in…da da…in
June…da da…under the stairs and stars…da da”
He didn't think he'd see the stars, the universe behind his closed eyelids as he
swayed to the sound of the melody that was just for them. Almost like a distant, hazy
memory of a universe that she had shown him. Almost like a new constellation of their
own, had risen to the skies from what he had just done, almost like the galaxies were
spinning a tad bit faster in the cosmos, in the dance floor. What is a kiss? It’s an oath
simply made more certain, a sealed promise, the heart’s confirmation of a pact. It’s a
secret whispered gently and sometimes not so to the mouth instead of the ear, a stolen
moment that makes time eternal. Making him leave through the beating of her heart,
and to taste the very sweet soul of another on her lips.
She, the most beautiful woman in a city of beauties, ‘’when you are with mee…I feel
free…da da…your eyes…’’ he said.
‘’your smile…da da…the stars and the moon…” you love me madly?” she sings then
asks. “Yes, and even more than that, I’m helpless” he replies.
 BEING A GARDENER

I WANTED TO WRITE the story of our love. Of that day we met at your place
the first time, when we hid behind in the garden and under the fruit tree and admiring
the colours of the flowers and fruits that hung carelessly from its branches. You picked
a flower and I plucked it from you and fixed it on your hair. I kept looking at the smell
of the colour of petrichor in your eyes. How I keep getting lost in them no matter what.

‘My flower,’ I whispered and leaned in and stole a kiss. You have this faint
glow that radiates around your body and how when you walk I swear flowers tend to
lean towards you with those majestic steps you take. I promise my eyes don’t play
tricks on me.

You giggled and said ‘ew’ in that cute way you always do, and you traced your
soft hands across my face and lightly touched my lips. My smile. The one you said you
loved. The same one that effortlessly forms when you are near. We interlocked hands as
you lay your head on my legs and setting the mood. I had created a playlist for this
time, where in the garden of my heart you are the gardener and I am in yours too.

We are all on our cosmic journeys through eternity, and our journeys seemed to
collide, we stopped for a moment when we met, like travelers on a little break from
eternity. If I had any super-power, I’d take the batteries off the eternity clock and stay
there with you, where seconds and minutes don’t exist but then it will make our growth
stagnant and I wouldn’t want that.

When you are near time stops by itself as our bodies grow with every passing
second but my heart will retain the lovely garden you so gently handle.

They say, opposites attract but also like and like attract too. The farm implements
that we use to cater for each other’s’ gardens are just a product of a whole. Like a
marble stone before the artisan works his magic. The model he want’s is always in the
stone and what he does is remove the unintended and unwanted parts.

The love, the kindness, the strength, is and has always been within us, and like a
garden before it’s worked on, it’s covered with thorns and briers and clumped up rocks
to be removed and taken care of. Like gardeners you took and called me yours, of all
the times I’ve heard my name, never has it felt more true, never have I felt more alive
than when it floats off your lips. She is a poem and a love song too.

“YOU WOULD GIVE UP EVERYTHING FOR ME?” She asked, sounding

surprised.
“You are everything,” he said, “gravity is pulling me towards you and I won’t
put up a fight. Why would it be a crime for me to love you? To know that you was safe.
clarity when you are near”
 TO THE KIDS I’LL HAVE

I LOVE YOUR MOM, It’s simple and complicated as that. I know that’s not how a letter
should be started. I love you and what I want you to see first before it’s spoken to you,
is that we want love to be like the first name in your lives before the first, that you
would never luck what both of us desired growing up. We hold the love of ages for you
little ones.

…..to be continued …..