There’s a village in Africa (according to the Internet) that surrounds a person who has misstepped, the entire village remember, and instead of admonishing them, spends days speaking nothing but of the good the person is, and or has achieved.
I don’t know if it’s true. Probably not.
But today, I’ll be your entire village, and I’ll speak of nothing but of your perfection. Of the truth.
Of your beauty, made of creases and marks and scars and eyelashes kissed by light years of sun rays so breathtaking.
Of your pride, like waves of warmth moving over your lips as unspoken heartbeats.
Of the day you held my hand, you were kind, you danced like a maniac.
Your laughing kisses
your spurts of spontaneity
And that stupid light in your eyes when your song comes on.
You are strong, gentle, amazing, and may you never forget it.