We never met at the altar—they burned that down before we were born.
We met in the smolder,
in the space between protest chants and whispered prayers,
on the street corner where forgotten people still sing.
You smiled like revolution—
not the sudden kind,
but the slow, deliberate kind that feeds the hungry
and doesn’t flinch when the cops draw near.

Our love—
it’s not flowers and chocolate.
It’s survival notes tucked into coat pockets.
It’s jailhouse letters written in code.
It’s the way you bandage my feet when the march gets too long
and I kiss the scar where they tried to make you small.

We don’t dream of white picket fences.
We dream of free clinics,
of community gardens breaking through the concrete,
of children who never have to fear sirens.

I don’t just want to touch your skin—
I want to dismantle the systems that ever made you feel unworthy in it.
I want to hold your ancestors in my breath
and carry their stories on my tongue
so when I say “I love you,”
it echoes down the bloodlines like a war cry and a lullaby.

You are not mine.
We are each other’s because we choose it—
not owned, not consumed,
but *woven*.
Together like bricks in a barricade,
like poems etched into subway walls,
like the last bite of bread given freely to a stranger.

They taught us love was soft.
They lied.
Our love is wild.
It riots.
It refuses to be tamed.

And when they ask me if I believe in miracles,
I say yes—
because I’ve seen the way your eyes burn
when you speak truth in a room full of silence.
Because you took my shame
and turned it into a banner.
Because in your arms,
I am not just whole—
I am dangerous.

We are not in love.
We *are* love.
Revolutionary.
Relentless.
Unapologetically alive.