Infatuated with Black Love

There’s something about Black love that stays on my mind. I can’t shake it, and honestly, I don’t even want to. It’s the kind of love that makes me stop mid-thought and just smile. I get infatuated with it—the way it shows up in little moments, the way it carries history, the way it feels both fragile and unbreakable at the same damn time. I think about how we love out loud. The way we laugh from the gut, the way we tease, the way we hold each other like the world can’t touch us. Black love has flavor—it’s soulful, it’s gritty, it’s smooth, it’s magic. It doesn’t need approval, it doesn’t ask permission—it just is. What makes me obsessed with it is how it carries weight. When I see Black love, I see survival. I see ancestors who weren’t even allowed to love openly, and yet here we are—kissing, hugging, claiming each other boldly in the daylight. That’s not small. That’s history bending toward us. I’m addicted to the beauty of it: melanin on melanin, rhythm meeting rhythm, dreams being built together. Black love feels like home, like a language I was born already knowing. It’s not just romance—it’s family, it’s community, it’s that bond that says “I got you, always.” And I swear… the more I think about it, the more I know I’ll never stop being drawn to it. Black love is endless. And I want to lose myself in it again and again.