Dear November. I can see you from where I am. Young. Eager. Ready to challenge a system designed to make you work your ass off for an unachievable dream. Like pedaling a bike as hard and as fast as you can and realizing that you’re turning the wheels that will make someone else move forward. But still work hard November. But there is no need to be the best. Greatness has no place in this society. For the greatest achieve nothing but recognition and praises. Two things that do not quell a starving belly or provide warmth when the cold threatens to take you out. Be smart. Know how to play the game. For the greats have to carry the things that the mediocre leave behind. And trust me November, it is too great a burden to bear.

November, do not rush and aspire toward Love. For what you are looking for is companionship to ease the loneliness. You are looking for a feel good to negate the feel bads that you are afflicted with every day. You are not looking for the commitment from each and every man or woman you encounter. You are looking to feel wanted. Desirable. Sexy. Coveted. You want someone to crave you as much as you do them. You want to know that the most unattainable person in The Universe can show some interest in you. And trust me. They will. But don’t you dare let them drag you down to hell with them.

Dear November. You do not need a degree from a place that seeks to chain you with debt and restrictions to validate you. You are good enough already. You came perfectly out of the womb. You were already valuable. Everything to make you great already lives in you. It is up to you to sow the seeds and reap the harvest. You are Greatness Personified.

Dear November. You do not need that man. You never did. Any man that does not make you feel higher than your best self is not for you. You are not his Savior. He is not your Saint. It is okay to leave people broken. We cannot mend every fragmented piece. For we cannot break ourselves in our selfless attempt to fix others. It is okay to take back your sanity. You owe that man nothing but a kiss on his forehead and genuine well wishes. Baby or not.

Dear November. It is okay to chase Love. He is waiting for you to claim him. You will spend your entire life not knowing it in its purest, kindest form. Running from it. Proudly proclaiming that you don’t need it. But it will come for you. And when it does, innocent and trusting, you will distort it beyond recognition. You will beat it and punish it until it becomes ugly and undesirable. And you will realize that it was you that made it this way.

Dear November. It is okay to be you. The real you. The untouchable, unreachable you. Discriminate on who you let in. Not everyone’s intentions are good. They are not all worthy of your time.

November, you are not uppity for wanting something more for yourself. You are not anal because you plan for a future as if it will come in the morning with the rising sun. Because guess what? It will.

Dig deeper. Save money to leave those who will need to survive after you have gone. Forgive easily. Forget nothing. Live every day as if tomorrow will never come. Because you know what November? One day tomorrow will be an entire lifetime away. My dear November.

Let’s take a trip down memory lane. Remember my tiny studio apartment? Cobalt blue walls with hand painted vines reaching toward the ceiling. You laid me flat out on the firmness of my cheaply made Walmart futon and covered my eyes with the Blackness of my silk scarf. Remember running ice over my bare skin? Then syrup? Then your warm pink tongue? How did it feel to taste the very best of heaven on your virgin taste buds?

Now let’s make a left on Nostalgia Avenue. All my love. My peace and happiness. I want to give it to….. You. You sang in the shower and I hummed along. Waiting for you to step out and reveal the greatness that dwelled within you. Body glistening. Branded chocolate skin. You were glowing even though the room was nearly dark. You made love to me on that cold bathroom floor. I dug my fingers deep into that sun-kissed skin. Licked those Greek Letters on your chiseled chest. Tasted the stories that you would forever keep from me. Stories that turned into dark secrets. Secrets that ripped us apart. But I can still taste the majesty of that burn. Still hearing you pledging that allegiance in my small shower.

Make a right on Reminiscent Road. A long hallway. Blue stars and men playing football. Plush couches and countless pictures of children that weren’t yours. I danced for you as you sat in that brown chair. In my purple dress. And my orange heels that you loved. We didn’t make love. You pleasured my body so well no words I put on this page could do you justice. I ain’t never felt nothing like that before. And I still haven’t to this very day.

Memories. Take me back to the places I want to visit repeatedly but can no longer go. Carry me through the recesses of the deepest parts of my mind and let me live there. Let me travel through those alleyways and side streets to the destinations that are forbidden to me outside of my psyche.  

I’m running out of gas.

Recollection Boulevard. And I’ve hit a dead end. Nowhere to go from here. No longer able to remember the small details and the little touches that once tied me to the things I desperately want to remember. Forced to turn around and make my way back through the mish mosh of happenings and occurrences. For some reason I cannot find my way through. I’m stuck on Memory Lane. And left with all the things that live there. Pain. Anger. Regret. Hurt. Love. Hope. Fear. Love. You. It’s all so foreign. But so pleasantly familiar. I can make a home on Memory Lane. Live here forever.

But I won’t. This place, filled with all of the stickiness and filth of emotions, is a place you visit. Not a place of permanence. It’s a place I must come to when I need a vacation. But right now. In this perfect piece of space and time, with this combination of this new you and this old I, I think I have to leave Memory Lane and find a new place to call home.

I just had to sneak away. Parked across the street from your home, nothing but some leggings and a fitted white t-shirt on. Even forgot the shoes. Oh well.

I was waiting for you. Waiting for the silhouette of your car to come into view. Waiting for the fury of you to come into my eyesight. And finally you did.

I was happy to see you were alone. By yourself when you parked your own car. Solitary when walked the pathway to your steps. And I followed you the entire way. Bare feet and all. I pushed you in as you opened the door. You first reaction was to reach out and swing. I caught that arm and forced you against your bare wall. No need for talking. I fiddled with your silver belt buckle. Not caring that there were no greetings shared. Not concerned that my husband was at home asleep. Not giving two damns that your wife was on her way home.

I was nearly set ablaze when your lips covered mine. I couldn’t stop the waterfall from flowing when you pulled my hair and nibbled at my neck. I couldn’t control myself when your hand found all that they were looking for inside those cheap, black leggings. My knees buckled when you gave me what I had come for from inside your overpriced jeans. I missed your passion. I missed the eruption that was set off in the deepest depth of my being when you lifted me up and wrapped my legs around your head. I’d gladly burn in hell forever for this little piece of heaven. For a little slice of you. For this small sample of Love. Of passion. Of this. And I know that despite your weak protests uttered between fiery kisses, you would have gladly gone through hell to be with me. Too bad hell had come in the form of wedding rings and empty promises.

But while we shared this hour of our nirvana, these moments of belonging totally and completely to each other, swimming deep in this ocean of sin, I knew that there must have been a God. Because he made you just for me. And as we dressed again, still not uttering a sound, I knew that The Universe was going to make a way to bring us together again.

Yet as I sat in my car and watched her walk up your stone steps, wedding ring gleaming even in the dark, I also knew that life was never that simple. That when you greeted her at the door, wrapped your arms around her waist, and kissed her like you should only kiss me, I accepted that Heaven was on fire and God was no more. I had to keep these fantasies in my head. Stop hoping for things that would never come.

So with my white tee and my black leggings, I tucked my imagination back into the box from which it came and vowed to leave you alone. No more late night visits. No more fictional adultery. No more butterflies and day dreams. It just had to accept what was there. It’s going to be a long lifetime without you.

I am not flawless. You will not ogle me as you scroll down Instagram while laying on the couch with your hands in your pants. I will not wear spandex shorts and capture the roundness of my behind for you to see. There shall be no topless photos. My chest is a piece of art to be displayed. I will not color my lips with overpriced lipsticks and blow kisses into my smart phone camera. You will not pretend that those kisses are meant for you.

I will not post pictures in a bikini. There shall be no camel toe in too small sweat pants or cheap black leggings. I will not load my face with tons of make up to look like her. Or her. Or her. Straight weaves and long tresses are just not my thing. I’m a tapered afro kind of girl.

I do not have a flat stomach. I will no longer kill myself trying to get one. I do not have a tiny waist. Instead I have a roll and stretch marks where my slim figure used to reside. My breasts do not look perfect all the time. I have bad hair days. I do not shave sometimes. My nails go unpolished and unmanicured a very large majority of my life. My teeth are uneven. I simply do not care. Perfection is not my goal.

But here is that I am. I am fucking sexy. I am soft as you run your hands over bare my skin in bed. I am a wonderful cook. Making you breakfast after a night of putting in that work. I am regal. Above the pettiness of comparisons and put downs. I’m into compliments and self esteem. Believe that. I am modest. Although I know how to be a dirty girl when warranted, my goods are not for all to see. I’ll leave that to your imagination. I am mysterious. Under each layer after silky sweet layer you’ll find a new part of me. A new depth. A new person to get to know. You will never entertain boredom. I am me. What you see is what you get. Thick eyebrows. No relaxer. Little make up, if any. Jeans and a t-shirt. Chucks. Heels on special occasions. Like when you come home from a late night at work and looking for a little you and me time. I like those nights.

I am not perfect. I am transparent. What you see is that you get. I am not the finest wine. I am the sweetest on the tongue. I am not immaculate. But I am elegant. Graceful. Timeless. I am not flawless. I’m better. I’m simple. I’m real. I’m me.

I remember Vicky. The way her oversized chrome feet glimmered and shone when you would roll past me on those stifling July days on New Jersey streets. You loved that car as much as I thought that I loved you. You kept her clean, giving her a bath one a week. Twice when it rained. She was always neat. Proper. I remember riding around past Burger King and Walgreens, blasting Meek Mills. He was a newby then. A break out artist. Something fresh. Like what was happening between us. The music was so loud I couldn’t hear myself think. So loud I couldn’t feel my phone vibrate on my brown legs. But I heard him. Feeling like the words to the songs you chose off that album had been picked for me. They weren’t. They were for everybody. For every girl. For every pretty face you had ever seen. They were never for me.

I remember Cammie. Silver and bright. She still had the new car smell. I shared so many firsts with you and that car. First kiss. First love. First car. I was hurt when I learned that I wasn’t going to be the first woman to enjoy her heated seats. But I’ll take second place to your sisters. But she was there through everything. She drove those many miles from Philly to DC. She took you away when you learned of my infidelities. She dried your tears and drowned out your cries with the sound of Rick Ross after our heated fights. Live Fast. Die Young. She carried away our boxes of memories when you told me it was over. You’ve had enough. Pictures. Teddy bears. Clothes you left behind. She carried you away from me. I miss Cammie. I don’t even think she remembers me. I’ll never forget her.

I remember the thunder of your Black Honda Coupe. She never had a name. Your racing car. Your bad boy car. Your drug dealing car. I loved the roar of the engine. I love the way you switched gears. I loved the speed. How fast you and Her swept me off my feet. I remember hearing you coming from around the corner. Anxious. I remember the butterflies. You and Her would always bring me something special. Wendys Frosty’s. Specially made burgers. McDonalds Fries. Well placed kisses. I loved when you and Her would come home to me. She was ferocious, but oh so sweet. Just like you.

I remember when she started to go. Over heating on dark highways. Windows that wouldn’t roll down. Balding tires. Peeling tint. Leaking coolant and oil. We had to let our Honda go. We’ve upgraded since then. Gotten something new now. But Ms. Honda is still in our hearts. I still hear you revving that powerful engine in the recesses of my mind.

So many cars. A Burgundy Buick. A Black Caddy. A White Pontiac. A Black Civic Coupe. A Green Acura with the passenger side door banged in. A Lexus Jeep. Many men. Many cars. All with their own stories to tell. Something so simple. Giving me a ride. Taking me to dinner. To a movie. Sneaking me into your mother’s basement. All the late night “chill” sessions. So many destinations.

I only have one ride now. His gray Acura. Tint black as midnight. Always parked outside our home. As if waiting for me. Ms. Ebony. She’s my ride for now. And I’ll be riding that girl until the wheels fall off. Believe that.

I stole her wedding ring. On purpose. From right under her pretty little nose. While she slept, I snuck into her husband’s head and danced his favorite dance. As she worked to tie ends that he wasn’t man enough to make meet, he layed in my bed, buried by blue cotton sheets. I made sure he always had white pillow cases. He said they made him feel like a king. I liked dating royalty.

As she cut chicken and boiled pasta, he snuck away to enjoy my lips in the back of his car. My ass at our favorite gas station. Other parts of me in the Burger King parking lot. I slipped into her home when the lights were out, through hushed phone calls and late night text messages. I was there in the pocket of his size 34 waist dress pants, wearing only his favorite blue and white neck tie. I crept in on their anniversary dinner. Him saying he had to get to work. Something urgent had come up.

That’s when she suspected that someone had invaded her home. She started to smell the perfume on his collared shirts. She started to time his meetings. His golf games. His trips to the grocery store. She waited up for him one night. And asked him about the pink socks in his car that weren’t hers. Confronted him about the smell on his chin. He liked when I sat on his face. Naughty. She yelled that she never wore glitter, but there it was on the crotch of his pants.

And just like that I had slithered into her home and stole her wedding ring. She yanked it off her finger and tossed it at his head. And it was mine. To have and to hold. Until death do us part. Sneaky. Cunning. Clever. I wouldn’t say I was a thief, but I sure did have the ability to steal. Her life. Her sanity. Her peace of mind. I have it all. And she never saw it coming.

Now as I admire her platinum setting diamond ring on my left ring finger, it’s all so bitter sweet. I love this man. I’ve worked hard to make him mine. Plotted. Schemed. Waited patiently as the walls came crumbling down around her perfect like head. I had played my part and came out victorious. There was no better feeling. Until I began to wonder, who would be the bandit to come and make the walls fall in my own castle. When would my burglar come? Who is going to come and steal my wedding ring from me?

Just close your eyes. There is nothing to see here. Only feel. Your jagged nails against my bare scalp as I bury my head between your velvet thighs. You’re so soft against my callused hands. So smooth against my roughness. Your hips rise and fall as my tongue flickers against the tiny piece of skin that holds the key to every single ounce of pleasure in your body.

You pull my hair.

You grab my shoulders.

You let me know that you’re feeling it. All with your eyes closed.

And when I finish, and your wetness threatens to drown me, I’ll rise and kiss your pink lips, covered with Sephora lip stain. You’ll pull me into you and I’ll let you. Pull me in baby. Tell me your dirtiest fantasies. Your most secret desires.

As you slip your tongue into my mouth, I’ll run my hands over your erect nipples, down your stomach, and back into your ocean. I’ll find my way over the waves and into the deep. Two fingers in and out of the rising tide. You moan your satisfaction to me. Telling me you’re feeling it. All with your eyes closed.

It’s a rhythm. Up and down. Your kisses. My sighs. Your moans. My grunts. Your hips. My hands. It’s me and you gorgeous. Me doing my very best to pleasure you. And by the way your body clenches and releases me every time I enter and exit your sacred places, I know I am doing one hell of a job.

You never told me with your soft lips that you loved it, but the way you gripped the sheets told me everything I needed to know. So many describe themselves as flawless, but you, here underneath me, with your back arched and your mouth open, you were the epitome of the word. Your rapid breathing and the way you parted your legs, allowing me to really explore your wetlands, let me know that you were feeling it.

So keep your eyes closed. Feel my lips all over your bare skin. Feel the affection in my hands. Feel the passion in my heart. Envision heaven in the darkness of your imagination. There was nothing to see in the blackness of our bedroom. So lover, keep those beautiful eyes closed.

We, as females, constantly ridicule the loose woman. We judge the street walker. We look down on the exotic dancers and escorts. The shameless women of the night. But we are the foolish ones. Doing for free what they get paid for. We take pride in our expensive vehicles and flashy diamond rings on fingers that continue to plump with age. She enjoys freedom, liberty, and the high of life flowing through her veins. The addiction to fast money, fast cars, handsome men, and jealous stares.

We hate her for sleeping with our men. But yet it is her that we emulate when we want to bring our man’s attention back home. It is her we think about when we envision our partner’s escape from us. We fault her for wearing heels that are too high and tops that are too low. But we seek to be like her when we want to be sexy. We wear her uniform of stilettos, tight dresses, and teased hair. We look for her independence. We look for her carelessness. We envy her candor.

We whisper to our friends that she squanders her money while we work hard every day for our 401K. We mumble that she’s had too many pleasures with too many men. So many ships have sailed through her wetness. Her ocean must surely be polluted. But we want to be like her. We dance naked in front of the mirror, sucking in our stomachs to be perfect. Just like her. All the time.

But the truth is, we are her. The woman who wears the heels and disappears with strange men into the darkness of the night. Why are we so different from her? Because our privates are not public fodder? Because less hands have rubbed against our bare skin? No. You hold the same power as her. It is infinite. You burn with the same fury. You feel the same passions. Do not fault her for doing what you are simply too conservative, too ashamed, or too afraid to do. How we use the roar within us is what eventually separates the lioness from the house cat. Which one are you?

My favorite moments with you are when we say nothing at all. The moments when your toes touch mine underneath the purple covers as we read our books on different subjects taking us to different worlds. No noise in the background. Just the sound of turning pages and slow, relaxed breathing.

I love the moments we share enclosed within those four automobile doors, saying nothing at all. Listening to the notes that escape out of your overpriced speakers. No noise needed. The sound of the engine going. The sound of the road beneath us. The sound of love dancing between our hearts.

I especially love the moments when it hits me. The bad days. The crippling days. The dark days that come without warning. That is when I love you the most. When you stare into my face, read the sadness in my eyes, and plant kisses along the same path where the tears fell. Those are the moments when I need you most. When you grab me and fall to the floor, holding me the entire way down. You don’t understand how much that means to me. How you help me out of hell with your silence. How you make me feel so loved. So safe. So secure. And you say nothing at all.

It’s not when you ask how my day was when you see the stress resting on my brow. It’s not when you surprise me with trinkets or flowers at work, making all the girls envious. It’s not when we dine at my favorite restaurant or even when you solve the riddle of my orgasm while we make love.

I love you the most in the moments when you say nothing at all. In those moments when your lips do no talking and you let your hands do the explaining. In those moments when the quietness of the room is filled with all the things you want to say. All the things I need to hear.

My God. How I love you. How I love the deafening silence. How I love your ability to decipher when to speak and when to bow. When to bark and when to kneel. When to roar and when to lay. You just know. This is the reason why, of everyone, you are the chosen. Because you understand that I understand you best, I hear you loudest, when you say nothing at all.

I have arrived. On the flight that you assigned me. To your side of reality. I have finally crossed over to the Promised Land. To the land of green overflow, fidelity, and security. It is where you have wanted me to be. You have force fed me all of the fairy tales and candy dreams and I am ready to reach the clouds with you. But I just have one question.

Where, My Love, are you?

You promised me white fences and the pitter patter of miniature feet. You swore to me that the wealth would spill over in abundance and my heart would never again know worry. I admit that I have been hesitant all of this time. Dissecting your words. Looking for holes and inconsistencies. There were many.

But you know what? I still traveled through the messy untruths and sticky infidelities to your side of the mountain. The bright side. The side where you told me to meet you. I have gotten to the peaceful part. The most joyous corner. Serenity. I am here. But where are you?

It’s silent here. Only the faint ringing in my ears remains. I’m listening intently for your voice. I’m looking around watching the breeze blow through the light green grass. The hope is keeping me going. The love makes me smile. Even though the loneliness wraps itself around my neck, threatening to choke me.

I’ve grown impatient. I’m ready to go now. But every time I go to leave, every time my feet begin to walk away towards that dreadful flight back to actuality, you appear and feed my soul again. You tell me you’re going to change. It’s a promise. You’re trying. Give you another chance. It will be different this time. It calms me. So I stay. And wait longer. And longer. Weeks. Months. Three long years. Waiting. Surviving off of the wishes and dreams that seem to drift further and further away from me.

Your words are repetitive. The reasons and excuses you give me no longer ease the hunger building in the most sacred parts of me. I have opened the door for you finally. But you did not walk in.

You’ve run out of chances with me. The arrival is now a departure. I’m leaving now. Evacuation time. Feed your love songs and tears to someone else.

I’ve already begun my journey back home. To the place I have known forever and missed so dearly. I’m headed back to me. And away from you.

I’ll remember you. Treat the next one better. Make sure when you send her to the land of picket fences and overflow, you meet her there. Don’t keep her waiting. Do better. We deserve it.

That’s my flight. It’s time for me to go. I’ll watch our world grow smaller as I ascend into the sky. Away from everything I ever hoped for. I’ll do better next time. Goodbye.

Don’t make it too easy for me baby. I like a challenge. I enjoy working up a sweat. I have no problem working for my rewards.

Don’t make it too easy for me to melt when you touch me. I practically fall into your arms. No assistance needed. No resistance given.

 Don’t slip my shirt off my shoulder with your middle finger and nibble on my bottom lip.

Your kisses make me stupid. It’s not fair that you use them against me. Making my heart pound faster now. 

Making my desire stronger now.

You’re making this shit too easy.

You knock down my defenses when you lift me up and push my back against our auburn wall. Gripping my behind. Cracking me wide open. Warming up all the engines.

Don’t put your lips here. 

Don’t put your tongue there.

Don’t.

Don’t do that.

You’re making it too easy to say yes.

My chest rises and falls in sync with your own.

How I love you. How you make me drown in you doing the things you do.

You make it too easy with your soft skin. Black ink in all the right places.

No fight from me because of your bedroom eyes and your working hands.

And tonight you’re working on me.

On this wall. On that chair.

On my table. In our bed. In your shower.

Your earned your payment today Papa. You make it too damn easy to be in love with you.

Every day.

No challenges over here. No tests. None of the complications.

You’re just so damn easy.

To Love.