(Makonde belly mask, Africa)
*for brownin'*
secrets to your soul
don't make their home only in your curves
they shine like sutras
carved from the face of diamonds
at the very apex of your nerves
my arms learn their language
embracing the flesh of butterscotch
drunk with what could be
and is righteously
no fear of the hangovers
denoting what your soul is not
smiles you flash
akin to sugar upon a glass of spiced rum
that suffices to soothe the burn
sparked by flames of laughter
you release from your tongue
and each night since meeting you
i've been happy
knowing exactly where beauty that feeds fire
finds its vessel for freedom
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