Ebony Love Quotes

Drink from the fountain of love where every drop is eternal passion.

I loved going to the library. It was the first time I ever saw Black newspapers and magazines like JET, Ebony, the Baltimore Afro-American, or the Chicago Defender. And I’ll never forget my librarian.

When the wolf howls and the moon dims hope fades with the waning light. Evil lurks at every turn as shadows waltz across the ebony night. Behold the midnight hour where all of reason takes flight.

Black Girls… Stop settling for less than what you deserve. That’s why I stress self-love! There comes a time when you can no longer blame a man. You’ve got to hold yourself accountable for the choices that you make. Choose wisely! Slow down. Pay attention. Don’t allow his good looks and swag to blind you from the truth. Don’t be so easily flattered by money, cars, jewelry, and all of that other stuff. Your heart and well-being is worth much more than that. Choose someone who respects, loves, and adores you. Somebody who has your best interest at heart. Nothing less! Allow yourself to experience REAL love. Stop giving your love, time, and attention to men who clearly don’t deserve it. #ItsAllUpToYou

Stupid darkness. Stupid firelight. Making everything feel romantic. Stupid feelings. Would they ever go away and let me love someone who might actually love me back?

I read somewhere that the best lovers are best friends first. And Prince, you’ve become my very best friend. That’s what I missed the most. I missed our laughs, and our talks… and your clumsy ass.

Black Girls… Beautiful in EVERY shade and size. We’ve got that special something! Our melanin is exquisitely beautiful! Love & embrace the skin that you’re in. Our skin tones represent beauty. Light, brown, and dark skinned girls are equally gorgeous!

Brewster Place became especially fond of its colored daughters as they milled like determined spirits among its decay, trying to make it home. Nutmeg arms leaned over windowsills, gnarled ebony legs carried groceries up double flights of steps, and saffron hands strung out wet laundry on backyard lines. Their perspiration mingled with the steam from boiling pots of smoked pork greens, and it curled on the edges of the aroma of vinegar douches and Evening in Paris cologne that drifted through the street where they stood together - hands on hips, straight-backed, round-bellied, high-behinded women who threw their heads back when they laughed and exposed strong teeth and dark gums. They cursed, badgered, worshiped, and shared their men. Their love drove them to fling dishcloths in someone else's kitchen to help him make the rent, or to fling hot lye to help him forget that bitch behind the counter at the five-and-dime. They were hard-edged, soft-centered, brutally demanding, and easily pleased, these women of Brewster Place. They came, they went, grew up, and grew old beyond their years. Like an ebony phoenix, each in her own time and with her own season had a story.

My little boat is made of ebony; My flute stops are pure gold. Water loosens stains from silk; Wine loosens sadness from the heart. With good wine, a graceful boat, And a sweet girl's love, Why be jealous of mere gods?

Don’t ever think I fell for you or fell over you. I didn’t fall in love, I rose in it. I saw you and made up my mind. My mind. And I made up my mind to follow you too,

Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a passion-flower's half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor.

When the Devil was a woman, When Lilith wound Her ebony hair in heavy braids, And framed Her pale features all 'round With Botticelli's tangled thoughts, When she, smiling softly, Ringed all her slim fingers In golden bands with brilliant stones, When she leafed through Villiers And loved Huysmans, When she fathomed Maeterlinck's silence And bathed her Soul In Gabriel d'Annunzio's colors, She even laughed And as she laughed, The little princess of serpents sprang Out of her mouth. Then the most beautiful of she-devils Sought after the serpent, She seized the Queen of Serpents With her ringed finger, So that she wound and hissed Hissed, hissed And spit venom. In a heavy copper vase; Damp earth, Black damp earth She scattered upon it. Lightly her great hands caressed This heavy copper vase All around, Her pale lips lightly sang Her ancient curse. Like a children's rhyme her curses chimed, Soft and languid Languid as the kisses, That the damp earth drank From her mouth, But life arose in the vase, And tempted by her languid kisses, And tempted by those sweet tones, From the black earth slowly there crept, Orchids - When the most beloved Adorns her pale features before the mirror All 'round with Botticelli's adders, There creep sideways from the copper vase, Orchids- Devil's blossoms which the ancient earth, Wed by Lilith's curse To serpent's venom, has borne to the light Orchids- The Devil's blossoms- "The Diary Of An Orange Tree

Does God know the number of kisses before we fall in love? Yesterday, I was nobody and I believed myself important. Today, I feel my worth in you. You, with your emerald eyes and ebony hair, even your heartbeat is beautiful. You, who is my greatest joy, all other concerns vanish in your presence. You swallow time and consume space, inspiring all my passion with a single embrace. I love your existence.

I win Danielle Ford’s heart, it really could be mines to hold. And even if it doesn’t work out, if she goes her own way and I go mines, I’ll be proud that I finally did something I had been wanting to do forever, step to a girl who’s had me for a long time. There’s no way I’d ever regret that.

He wanted to touch her, to tame her, to take her in his arms and make love to her until they were both exhausted and unable to think of anything beyond their embrace. He wanted to sink into her rich ebony curls, her beautiful eyes, her infinite softness and never return.

Black Girls… Always remember: It’s so easy, and it takes very little effort, to be like the next person. Don’t insult yourself like that. Be yourself! Walk YOUR walk. Talk YOUR talk. Be uniquely YOU in everything that you do. A confident woman who has a strong sense of self is quite beautiful. Allow your light to shine from the inside out. Self-love is the greatest love of all. Love, respect, and be good to yourself, first! You matter! You count! And you’re important, too!

Sharply etched against the black velvet canopy, the lady in white watches as her husband awakens, his deep orange smile lighting up the ebony darkness.  Casting her alabaster glow across the dark firmament, she blows a kiss to her beloved solar mate as she prepares for her own descent into sleep.  “Remember,” she whispers, “remember the sweet fragrance of my words.  Soft, cherishing words spoken on the currents of timelessness as one life morphs into the next.  Words of love and remembrance.”  Smiling contentedly, her light dims into the erupting color of the daytime sky.

His baritone voice grits out, "Eyes on me. Now." I raise my eyes and peek up at him. He's got a punitive look in his eyes and his jaw is set. His ebony five o'clock shadow an angry mask. I've never seen him this way, but I kind of love it. Shh, don't tell anyone.

Self-love cannot flourish in isolation.

Nothing. I’m just… happy to see you look so content. I hope one day you look at me the way you looked at that donut.” I almost choke from laughing. For a minute I did almost forget he was here.

I watch my parents interact—how easily they’re able to go from being playful one moment to having a serious conversation about the latest news cycle the next. Their body language, so in sync with each other, so

It was she made me acquainted with love. She went by the peaceful name of Ruth I think, but I can't say for certain. Perhaps the name was Edith. She had a hole between her legs, oh not the bunghole I had always imagined, but a slit, and in this I put, or rather she put, my so-called virile member, not without difficulty, and I toiled and moiled until I discharged or gave up trying or was begged by her to stop. A mug's game in my opinion and tiring on top of that, in the long run. But I lent myself to it with a good enough grace, knowing it was love, for she had told me so. She bent over the couch, because of her rheumatism, and in I went from behind. It was the only position she could bear, because of her lumbago. It seemed all right to me, for I had seen dogs, and I was astonished when she confided that you could go about it differently. I wonder what she meant exactly. Perhaps after all she put me in her rectum. A matter of complete indifference to me, I needn't tell you. But is it true love, in the rectum? That's what bothers me sometimes. Have I never known true love, after all? She too was an eminently flat woman and she moved with short stiff steps, leaning on an ebony stick. Perhaps she too was a man, yet another of them. But in that case surely our testicles would have collided, while we writhed. Perhaps she held hers tight in her hand, on purpose to avoid it. She favoured voluminous tempestuous shifts and petticoats and other undergarments whose names I forget. They welled up all frothing and swishing and then, congress achieved, broke over us in slow cascades. And all I could see was her taut yellow nape which every now and then I set my teeth in, forgetting I had none, such is the power of instinct. We met in a rubbish dump, unlike any other, and yet they are all alike, rubbish dumps. I don't know what she was doing there. I was limply poking about in the garbage saying probably, for at that age I must still have been capable of general ideas, This is life. She had no time to lose, I had nothing to lose, I would have made love with a goat, to know what love was. She had a dainty flat, no, not dainty, it made you want to lie down in a corner and never get up again. I liked it. It was full of dainty furniture, under our desperate strokes the couch moved forward on its castors, the whole place fell about our ears, it was pandemonium. Our commerce was not without tenderness, with trembling hands she cut my toe-nails and I rubbed her rump with winter cream. This idyll was of short duration. Poor Edith, I hastened her end perhaps. Anyway it was she who started it, in the rubbish dump, when she laid her hand upon my fly. More precisely, I was bent double over a heap of muck, in the hope of finding something to disgust me for ever with eating, when she, undertaking me from behind, thrust her stick between my legs and began to titillate my privates. She gave me money after each session, to me who would have consented to know love, and probe it to the bottom, without charge. But she was an idealist. I would have preferred it seems to me an orifice less arid and roomy, that would have given me a higher opinion of love it seems to me. However. Twixt finger and thumb tis heaven in comparison. But love is no doubt above such contingencies. And not when you are comfortable, but when your frantic member casts about for a rubbing-place, and the unction of a little mucous membrane, and meeting with none does not beat in retreat, but retains its tumefaction, it is then no doubt that true love comes to pass, and wings away, high above the tight fit and the loose.

And now I'm realising it's ok to let toxicity go, even if it used to be good at one point. What matters is how does it make you feel now, and right now nothing about Destiny makes me believe she cares about me or this friendship. Only her.

Lord Cut-Glass, in his kitchen full of time, squats down alone to a dogdish, marked Fido, of peppery fish-scraps and listens to the voices of his sixty-six clocks, one for each year of his loony age, and watches, with love, their black-and-white moony loudlipped faces tocking the earth away: slow clocks, quick clocks, pendulumed heart-knocks, china, alarm, grandfather, cuckoo; clocks shaped like Noah's whirring Ark, clocks that bicker in marble ships, clocks in the wombs of glass women, hourglass chimers, tu-wit-tuwoo clocks, clocks that pluck tunes, Vesuvius clocks all black bells and lava, Niagara clocks that cataract their ticks, old time weeping clocks with ebony beards, clocks with no hands for ever drumming out time without ever knowing what time it is. His sixty-six singers are all set at different hours. Lord Cut-Glass lives in a house and a life at siege. Any minute or dark day now, the unknown enemy will loot and savage downhill, but they will not catch him napping. Sixty-six different times in his fish-slimy kitchen ping, strike, tick, chime, and tock.

i want to love you with simple, like a bare singular matchstick. one stroke to ignite with no words spoken by the heated flames of the timber of crimsoned scarlet fire. as it crackles with close separation entangled with the intimacy of firefly ashes choosing to enchantingly dance around in abundant joy. hazily whistling into the glorified heavens making the ebony soot dissolve into the cool crisp air. yearning to be the explosion who burns through your bones as you visualize red ecstasy of a provoked kindle.

From Black to White and all colors and cultures in between...Love Is Universal.

To let yourself love someone requires courage.

Honor the past, celebrate the present, embrace the future.

You deserve a great love story, Dani,” she says to me.

The way you look tonight, there is no way I can upstage you. I’m just going to look like a lucky-ass dude holding hands with the prettiest girl at the skating

It's crazy how a relationship can be over long before you both call it quits.

Maybe it was the wrong kind of love, one where you rely so much on the other person that it isn’t fair, but it was the only kind of love I was capable of.

Ebony Life" A frightening stillness will mark that day And the shadow of streetlights and fire-alarms will exhaust the light All things, the quietest and the loudest, will be silent The suckling brats will die The tugboats the locomotives the wind will glide by in silence We will hear the great voice which coming from far away will pass over the city We will wait a long time for it Then at the rich man's time of day When the dust the stones the missing tears form the sun's robe on the huge deserted squares We shall finally hear the voice. It will growl at doors for a long while It will pass over the town tearing up flags and breaking windowpanes. We will hear it What silence before it, but still greater the silence it will not disturb but will hold guilty will brand and denounce Day of sorrows and joys The day the day to come when the voice will pass over the city A ghostly seagull told me she loved me as much as I loved her That this great terrible silence was my love That the wind carrying the voice was the great revolt of the world And that the voice would look kindly on me.

That's what love looks like. It's not always about the flowers and grand gestures, but this right here. Being completely yourself with another person in the moment, and them accepting no less of you.

saying I am love; and regardless of what happens with Prince, with any more of my friends, I know that I am deserving of it and that true love will find me, because I am finding it within myself. Dani

natural. That’s what love looks like. It’s not always about the flowers and grand gestures, but this right here. Being completely yourself with another person in the moment, and them accepting no less of you.

I affirm myself by saying I am love; and regardless of what happens with Prince, with any more of my friends, I know that I am deserving of it and that true love will find me, because I am finding it within myself.

That I have no trust in anyone? Even close friends? Because when they’re supposed to have your back but don’t, that pain is hard to shake. How do I tell her I need help without her prying and asking what’s wrong? Without her wanting to know every detail of that humiliating night?

a stunning glimpse of Buddy, at a later date by innumerable years, quite bereft of my dubious, loving company, writing about this very party on a very large, jet-black, very moving, gorgeous typewriter. He is smoking a cigarette, occasionally clasping his hands and placing them on the top of his head in a thoughtful, exhausted manner. His hair is gray; he is older than you are now, Les! The veins in his hands are slightly prominent in the glimpse, so I have not mentioned the matter to him at all, partially considering his youthful prejudice against veins showing in poor adults’ hands. So it goes. You would think this particular glimpse would pierce the casual witness’s heart to the quick, disabling him utterly, so that he could not bring himself to discuss the glimpse in the least with his beloved, broadminded family. This is not exactly the case; it mostly makes me take an exceedingly deep breath as a simple, brisk measure against getting dizzy. It is his room that pierces me more than anything else. It is all his youthful dreams realized to the full! It has one of those beautiful windows in the ceiling that he has always, to my absolute knowledge, fervently admired from a splendid reader’s distance! All round about him, in addition, are exquisite shelves to hold his books, equipment, tablets, sharp pencils, ebony, costly typewriter, and other stirring, personal effects. Oh, my God, he will be overjoyed when he sees that room, mark my words! It is one of the most smiling, comforting glimpses of my entire life and quite possibly with the least strings attached. In a reckless manner of speaking, I would far from object if that were practically the last glimpse of my life.

Lollipops and raindrops Sunflowers and sun-kissed daisies Rolling surf and raging sea Sailing ships and submarines Old Glory and “purple mountain’s majesty” Screaming guitar and lilting rhyme Flight of fancy and high-steppin’ dances Set free my mind to wander… Imagine the ant’s marching journeys. Fly, in my mind’s eye, on butterfly wings. Roam the distant depths of space. Unfurl tall sails and cross the ocean. Pictures made just to enthrall Creating images from my truth Painting hopes and dreams on my canvas Capturing, through my lens, the ephemeral Let me ruminate ‘pon sensual darkness… Tremble o’er Hollywood’s fluttering Gothics… Ride the edge of my seat with the hero… Weep with the heroine’s desperation. Yet… more than all these things… Give me words spun out masterfully… Terms set out in meter and rhyme… Phrases bent to rattle the soul… Prose that always miraculously inspires me! The trill runs up my spine, as I recall… A touch… a caress…a whispered kiss… Ebony eyes embracing my soul… Two souls united in beat of hearts. A butterfly flutter in my womb My lover’s wonder o’er my swelling The testament of our love given life Newly laid in my lover’s arms Luminous, sweet ebony eyes Just so much like his father’s A gaze of wonder and contentment From my babe at mother’s breast Words of the Divine set down for me Faith, Hope, Love, and Charity Grace, Mercy, and undeserved Salvation “My Shepherd will supply my need” These are the things that inspire me.

ain’t that simple anymore. What people call love now is merely infatuation—more about themselves than trying to actually get to know a person. Whatever happened to asking someone out to dinner, walking you up to your porch to make sure you get in safe, having picnics in the park, or passing notes to profess your love? Whatever happened to love that isn’t superficial?

The Fawn There it was I saw what I shall never forget And never retrieve. Monstrous and beautiful to human eyes, hard to believe, He lay, yet there he lay, Asleep on the moss, his head on his polished cleft small ebony hoves, The child of the doe, the dappled child of the deer. Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here Till I return," so spotty and plain to see On the green moss lay he. His eyes had opened; he considered me. I would have given more than I care to say To thrifty ears, might I have had him for my friend One moment only of that forest day: Might I have had the acceptance, not the love Of those clear eyes; Might I have been for him in the bough above Or the root beneath his forest bed, A part of the forest, seen without surprise. Was it alarm, or was it the wind of my fear lest he depart That jerked him to his jointy knees, And sent him crashing off, leaping and stumbling On his new legs, between the stems of the white trees?

Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a passion-flower’s half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor.

Lee went quickly out of the kitchen. He sat in his room, gripping his hands tightly together until he stopped choking. He got up and took a small carved ebony box from the top of his bureau. A dragon climbed toward heaven on the box. He carried the box to the kitchen and laid it on the table between Abra’s hands. “This is for you,” he said, and his tone had no inflection. She opened the box and looked down on a small, dark green jade button, and carved on its surface was a human right hand, a lovely hand, the fingers curved and in repose. Abra lifted the button out and looked at it, and then she moistened it with the tip of her tongue and moved it gently over her full lips, and pressed the cool stone against her cheek. Lee said, “That was my mother’s only ornament.” Abra got up and put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, and it was the only time such a thing had ever happened in his whole life. Lee laughed. “My Oriental calm seems to have deserted me,” he said. “Let me make the tea, darling. I’ll get hold of myself that way.” From the stove he said, “I’ve never used that word—never once to anybody in the world.

if they label you soft, feather weight and white-livered, if the locker room tosses back its sweaty head, and laughs at how quiet your hands stay, if they come to trample the dandelions roaring in your throat, you tell them that you were forged inside of a woman who had to survive fifteen different species of disaster to bring you here, and you didn’t come to piss on trees. you ain’t nobody’s thick-necked pitbull boy, don’t need to prove yourself worthy of this inheritance of street-corner logic, this blood legend, this index of catcalls, “three hundred ways to turn a woman into a three course meal”, this legacy of shame, and man, and pillage, and man, and rape, and man. you boy. you won’t be some girl’s slit wrists dazzling the bathtub, won’t be some girl’s, “i didn’t ask for it but he gave it to me anyway”, the torn skirt panting behind the bedroom door, some father’s excuse to polish his gun. if they say, “take what you want”, you tell them you already have everything you need; you come from scabbed knuckles and women who never stopped swinging, you come men who drank away their life savings, and men who raised daughters alone. you come from love you gotta put your back into, elbow-grease loving like slow-dancing on dirty linoleum, you come from that house of worship. boy, i dare you to hold something like that. love whatever feels most like your grandmother’s cooking. love whatever music looks best on your feet. whatever woman beckons your blood to the boiling point, you treat her like she is the god of your pulse, you treat her like you would want your father to treat me: i dare you to be that much man one day. that you would give up your seat on the train to the invisible women, juggling babies and groceries. that you would hold doors, and say thank-you, and understand that women know they are beautiful without you having to yell it at them from across the street. the day i hear you call a woman a “bitch” is the day i dig my own grave. see how you feel writing that eulogy. and if you are ever left with your love’s skin trembling under your nails, if there is ever a powder-blue heart left for dead on your doorstep, and too many places in this city that remind you of her tears, be gentle when you drape the remains of your lives in burial cloth. don’t think yourself mighty enough to turn her into a poem, or a song, or some other sweetness to soften the blow, boy, i dare you to break like that. you look too much like your mother not t

Catti-brie had to believe that now, recalling the scene in light of the drow's words. She had to believe that her love for Wulfgar had been real, very real, and not misplaced, that he was all she had thought him to be. Now she could. For the first time since Wulfgar's death, Cattie-brie could remember him without pangs of guilt, without the fears that, had he lived, she would not have married him. Because Drizzt was right; Wulfgar would have admitted the error despite his pride, and he would have grown, as he always had before. That was the finest quality of the man, an almost childlike quality, that viewed the world and his own life as getting better, as moving toward a better way in a better place. What followed was the most sincere smile on Cattie-brie's face in many, many months. She felt suddenly free, suddenly complete with her past, reconciled and able to move forward with her life. She looked at the drow, wide-eyed, with a curiosity that seemed to surprise Drizzt. She could go on, but what exactly did that mean? Slowly, Cattie-brie began shaking her head, and Drizzt came to understand that the movement had something to do with him. He lifted a slender hand and brushed some stray hair back from her cheek, his ebony skin contrasting starkly with her light skin, even in the quiet light of night. "I do love you," the drow admitted. The blunt statement did not catch Catti-brie by surprise, not at all. "As you love me," Drizzt went on, easily, confident that his words were on the mark. "And I, too, must look ahead now, must find my place among my friends, beside you, without Wulfgar." "Perhaps in the future," Catti-brie said, her voice barely a whisper. "Perhaps," Drizzt agreed. "But for now..." "Friends," Catti-brie finished. Drizzt moved his hand back from her cheek, held it in the air before her face, and she reached up and clasped it firmly. Friends

Sed Non Satiata Strange deity, brown as nights, Whose perfume is mixed with musk and Havanah, Magical creation, Faust of the savanna, Sorceress with the ebony thighs, child of black midnights, I prefer to African wines, to opium, to burgundy, The elixir of your mouth where love parades itself; When my desires leave in caravan for you, Your eyes are the reservoir where my cares drink. From those two great black eyes, chimneys of our spirit, O pitiless demon, throw out less flame at me; I am no Styx to clasp you nine times, Nor can I, alas, dissolute shrew, To break your courage, bring you to bay, Become any Proserpine in the hell of your bed! — Charles Baudelaire, from “Sed, Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil. Translated by Geoffrey Wagner. (David R. Godine; First edition, second printing edition October 1, 1985) Originally published 1857.

THE EARL OF Hythe, who took a great deal of pride in the fact that he had never succumbed to the awkward and messy inconvenience of falling in love, was on the verge of salivating. Before him was a man's sweetest dream on creamy sheets, a treasure all but clamoring to become his. He reverently reached out one perfectly manicured hand and stroked along the elegant spine. "Beautiful," he murmured. "Utterly exquisite." Only heaven could have dictated such smooth, milk-pale expanses, such bold curves and delicate lines. And the colors, from the faintest blush of pink to glossy ebony, were of such perfection that any man's eye would be caught, his fingers itching to touch. Damn his rule about impulse. This was something he could not possibly resist having. "You are pleased with what you see, my lord?" The earl smiled faintly at the eager catch in his companion's voice. "Perfectly." Satisfied, he drew a deep breath and stepped back. "We are agreed on the price?" The book dealer mopped his shiny brow with a wilted handkerchief and gave his own shaky sigh.

But I was in search of love in those days, and I went full of curiosity and the faint, unrecognized apprehension that here, at last, I should find that low door in the wall, which others, I knew, had found before me, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey city.... (Book I, Ch. 1) I shall never go back, I said to myself. A door had shut, the low door in the wall I had sought and found in Oxford; open it now and I should find no enchanted garden. I had come to the surface, into the light of common day and the fresh sea-air, after long captivity in the sunless coral palaces and waving forests of the ocean bed. I had left behind me – what? Youth? Adolescence? Romance? The conjuring stuff of these things, "the Young Magician's Compendium," that neat cabinet where the ebony wand had its place beside the delusive billiard balls, the penny that folded double and the feather flowers that could be drawn into a hollow candle. "I have left behind illusion," I said to myself. "Henceforth I live in a world of three dimensions — with the aid of my five senses." I have since learned that there is no such world; but then, as the car turned out of sight of the house, I thought it took no finding, but lay all about me at the end of the avenue." (Book II, Ch. 1)

But I was in search of love in those days, and I went full of curiosity and the faint, unrecognized apprehension that here, at last, I should find that low door in the wall, which others, I knew, had found before me, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey city.... (Book I, Ch. 1) I shall never go back, I said to myself. A door had shut, the low door in the wall I had sought and found in Oxford; open it now and I should find no enchanted garden. I had come to the surface, into the light of common day and the fresh sea-air, after long captivity in the sunless coral palaces and waving forests of the ocean bed. I had left behind me – what? Youth? Adolescence? Romance? The conjuring stuff of these things, "the Young Magician's Compendium," that neat cabinet where the ebony wand had its place beside the delusive billiard balls, the penny that folded double and the feather flowers that could be drawn into a hollow candle. "I have left behind illusion," I said to myself. "Henceforth I live in a world of three dimensions — with the aid of my five senses." I have since learned that there is no such world; but then, as the car turned out of sight of the house, I thought it took no finding, but lay all about me at the end of the avenue." (Book II, Ch. 1)

You grow sleepy,cara mia," Julian whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehea. "We should go to your brother's chamber. I will check him once more before we go to ground." Desari refused to open her eyes. She made a soft purring sound, completely contented to lie in his arms. "Not yet, Julian," she protested softly. "I do not want to leave this place for a little while longer." "I can feel how tired you are, my love. I can do no other than-" "Do not say it!" Deasri thumped his chest. "Just lie there and hold me. That is what I want. Men are such difficult creatures,Julian. I am beginning to realize this." He rubbed his chin on the top of her head, her hair catching in the shadow along his jaw. "Men are not difficult. They are logical and methodical." She laughed softly. "You wish it wree so. I must tell you,although I am taking a huge cance that you might become impossible to live with, tha you are an extraordinary lover." "Keep talking,lifemate. I am listening," he responded with a deep satisfaction. "Magnificent was only a starting place. Extraordinary lover is the perfect description. I see that now." Her soft laughter washed over him, as gentle as a breeze. Touching him. Just like that. She could touch him with her breath. Julian wrapped his arms around her tightly and buried his face in her ebony hair. "Why is it you always smell so good?" "Would you want me to smell like a cavewoman?" "I do not know,cara. I do not know what a cavewoman smells like." She opened her eyes at that, her long lashes fluttering in the sexy,flirty little way she had. "You'd better not want me smelling like any other, Julian, or you will find out what a real ancient woman can do when she is enraged.

My friend is Ebony,” he said. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou are more lovely and more temperate.

Ebony could hold a grudge for a long ass time.

Ebony was King's girl, had been since she was sixteen. Angel was my black, preppy, white girl, but don't let that fool you. Tiny or not, baby girl had them hands. Missy was my Puerto Rican bitch.

You can't keep letting King control your every move, damn. You got to live your life just like he does. Bitch, yo ass is grown and it’s about time you start acting like it," Ebony snapped.

King was really pissed at the thought of Ebony being with somebody else. “King,

Even though their relationship wasn’t perfect, just like Mike and Kim, they were cute together and Ebony really did balance him out.

I hoped Ebony didn’t leave because she was the best thing that happened to him, especially when our parents died. Even so, the friend in me wanted her to. She deserved better than what she was getting. He may have been my brother, but he was dumb as fuck. Taking

She had a point, but my issue was that I didn’t want to become my mom, or Ebony for that matter.

I loved my brother dearly, but he was never going to find another chick like Ebony.

The greatest happiness is to no you are been love

Whisper me a kiss… Softly… softly brushing my cheek As an - Oh! - so delicate caress… A gentle kiss upon my fingertips, So healing in its tenderness… Breathing your kiss upon my mouth, You softly whisper me a kiss… Oh! Whisper me a kiss… In your sweet breath is the promise Wafting me gently to a healing space This oft tossed ship carried ‘pon your breath Oh! Let me harbor in your embrace! Oh love… again… whisper me a kiss… Set us free to sail ‘cross time and space. Oh! Again… Whisper me a kiss… In your arms, the promise of forever… Shining as stars in your ebony eyes Come my love, tomorrow’s our dawn… Floating free as the star flies Our love, the vessel… you, my tether… On whispered kisses, together we’ll rise. Softly… Softly… Whisper me a kiss… "Whisper Me A Kiss" by D. Denise Dianaty © 30 August 2014

they failed at some important task and were banished to the heavens. The women themselves were wizened and toothless, or supple as polished ebony, with long-muscled limbs under pale shukas. I loved them and their tales, but I wanted more to join Kibii and the other totos who were becoming warriors, young morani. The role of girls in the village was entirely domestic. I had a different position—a rare one, free from the

These women, who carry a pen, a switchblade, and bubble gum in their purses. I say these women, make the world go 'round in verses.

He said loving me was like seeing the ocean for the first time. Watching the waves crash senselessly against the rocks, over and over. Grabbing fistfuls of sand as it trickled through his fingers, like my hair, brittle as ebony, strong and taut like the bumps of his knuckles. He said it was like swallowing his first mouthful of the sea — the sudden shock of betrayal.

Your hand, my wonder, is now icy cold. The purest light of the celestial dome has burned me through. And now we are as two still plains lying in darkness, as two black banks of a frozen stream in the chasm of the world. Our hair combed back is carved in wood, the moon walks over our ebony shoulders. A distant cockcrow, the night goes by, silent. Rich is the rime of love, withered the dowry. Where are you, living in what depths of time, love, stepping down into what waters, now, when the frost of our voiceless lips does not fend off the divine fires?

But the truth is, the concept of love just ain’t that simple anymore. What people call love now is merely infatuation—more about themselves than trying to actually get to know a person. Whatever happened to asking someone out to dinner, walking you up to your porch to make sure you get in safe, having picnics in the park, or passing notes to profess your love? Whatever happened to love that isn’t superficial?

The colored woman feels that woman’s cause is one and universal; and that not till the image of God, whether in parian or ebony, is sacred and inviolable; not till race, color, sex, and condition are seen as the accidents, and not the substance of life; not till the universal title of humanity to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is conceded to be inalienable to all; not till then is woman’s lesson taught and woman’s cause won — not the white woman’s, nor the black woman’s, not the red woman’s, but the cause of every man and of every woman who has writhed silently under a mighty wrong. Woman’s wrongs are thus indissolubly linked with undefended woe, and the acquirement of her “rights” will mean the final triumph of all right over might, the supremacy of the moral forces of reason, and justice, and love in the government of the nations of earth.

In The Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle says that “whenever your relationship is not working, whenever it brings out the ‘madness’ in you and in your partner, be glad. What was unconscious is being brought up to the light,” and it is in the light that I saw my childhood

You think you can get me to fall in love with you on two more dates?” “Oh no, miss. You put me to work today… this ain’t a date. I want three real dates. Let me woo you.

This is the gaze of a nocturnal god, the endless ebony of a night sky devoid of stars.

Remember that you are loved and valued more intimately and more completely than any Earthly thing can express and that no matter how Dark this Earth gets, we are the lights to combat the darkness, the campfires to cast out the cold.

I see now why you needed space to heal. I needed space to get my shit together. To be a better man for myself, and hopefully one day a better man for you. I love you, Danielle. You probably knew that, but you’ve made me recognize the power of words, how they matter, so I’m telling you now. Here, so that this is a love note you can hold close to you. Whatever happens between us, whatever man you end up settling down with (although I promise he’ll suck in comparison to me), keep this note. Write about me in one of your books, write about us. That will be your love note to me. A way to subtly let me know you never forgot about me. This memory. This moment in time when the world was so confusing and we had to grow up, and we grew up in one another. That our time together was boundless, that affection and appreciation and fondness and emotion are all the things we felt together (and yes, I looked at a thesaurus for words to describe love, so what). Because I love you. Did I say that? I love you enough to lose you, to be thankful to have had you, to want you to be the happiest version of Danielle you can be. And whether that’s with me or without, your mom is right. If anyone deserves a true love story, it’s you.

He sat, smoothing the wide legs of his trousers and hiding a smile. Glancing up through his lashes, he studied first Pjerin then Olina. The duc, in his late twenties, was a powerfully built man whose height made him appear deceptively slender. His aunt, eleven years older, was a slender woman who radiated power. He wore his thick black hair tied back at the nape of his neck with a bit of leather. She wore hers in one heavy braid wrapped around her head like an ebony crown. He smouldered. She flamed. They were both tall, and dark, and beautiful, and Albek loved to watch them fight.

But the truth is, the concept of love just

Sometimes it be the ones closest to you that hurt you the most.

I can’t fake, I miss them. It was so much easier for me to be around when I didn’t have this secret looming, eating me up. And they know me too well, so faking like everything is all right wouldn’t work around them. I’m just not the same person I used to be.

Oh no, miss. You put me to work today… this ain’t a date. I want three real dates. Let me woo you.

Maybe, but life gives us free will. He wanted more from life, and he felt I was holding him back. But look what God gave me,” she replies, holding my chin. “You. He left us and you stepped up and became a young man right before my very eyes. So that’s what I mean, baby. You’ve been more of a man than your father ever was. And you show me daily the type of husband and father you’ll be to someone. You’re my greatest accomplishment.

His answer was simply, “No. I don’t want him here if he wasn’t happy. Plus, you make me happy enough.

The theory is, in any heterosexual relationship it takes guys eighty-eight days to fall in love, and girls a hundred thirty-four. So if you keep it casual, you won’t have to be extra with it. He’ll fall right in your lap.

White Hollywood feeding us Black trauma porn, why not show more romances onscreen with Black leads?

We all deserve a big love story,” Mom says as the love scene fades out. “There’s nothing better.

Plus, my mom has MS and gets her hair braided, so she doesn’t have to worry about doing it, and I help her take them out all the time. It’s sort of like a bonding moment for us.

Is it a date?” Prince looks back at me. I gulp. “Hanging out, right?” He grins back. “Is that what you kids call it?” Dad teases. I want to legit die right here. Prince chuckles and glances at me. “Yes, it is. But I can sense your daughter doesn’t trust me… yet.” He steals a glance at me. I look away, trying to avoid showing my cheeks, which are starting to burn. “So if this is the only way I can spend time with her and prove my intentions, I’m willing to do it.

Don’t ever think I fell for you or fell over you. I didn’t fall in love, I rose in it. I saw you and made up my mind. My mind. And I made up my mind to follow you too,’ 

Here, so that this is a love note you can hold close to you. Whatever happens between us, whatever man you end up settling down with (although I promise he’ll suck in comparison to me), keep this note. Write about me in one of your books, write about us. That will be your love note to me. A way to subtly let me know you never forgot about me. This memory. This moment in time when the world was so confusing and we had to grow up, and we grew up in one another.

But it’s crazy what a little self-love will do. It will make you bet on yourself each time.

I love you enough to lose you, to be thankful to have had you, to want you to be the happiest version of Danielle you can be. And whether that’s with me or without, your mom is right. If anyone deserves a true love story, it’s you.

I needed space to get my shit together. To be a better man for myself, and hopefully one day a better man for you.

authentic. He could be a writer if he wanted to.

Just us. Because even with the dramatic shit I was planning, when me and Danielle got lost in the moment, we were lost in just each other. When we drowned out all

the noise and chaos around us was when I felt the most in tune with her.

was the intimate ways I connected with her—us alone in her basement, me silently sneaking skates into her locker, us sitting together at a bookstore—where I saw her fall for me. I came in trying to win her over, and she came in and changed my entire path. The best love I could possibly give

her is selfless love—to let her go on whatever journey she needs to go on to find love within herself and hope one day she comes back to me.

started dating, she was timid, she was angry, but most importantly, she was hurt. The girl I saw at the hair show was more bold, more confident, more secure. I wish I could take the credit for that, but I can’t—it was all her.

And what Danielle brought to my life, man. She never gave up on me. She never accepted my impulse to settle. She saw beneath my complacency and called out my jitters. She

told me to read more, and I did. Which helped me get over my own issues. She helped me understand it’s okay not to be so heroic all the damn time, and that showing your faults is okay, it only makes you human. Everything about her, everything about this, changed me. If I wanted a girl like Dani, I needed to be a better human myself. She made me grow the hell up.

For that young person who might be from Detroit and might say, “I could do this, I could write this story, and I might do it better.” Do it. I dare you.

My dad did it all; once he got to know my mom and what she liked, he prided himself on taking my mom places she didn’t know about, even though she was born and bred in the Motor City. He wrote her love notes with lines from his favorite poems and her favorite songs, showered her with flowers because she had a budding interest in gardening. He courted her.