You’re perhaps the only woman on this pandemic-stricken planet who understands me. And you haven’t even met me. How I think of you. I’ve created you in my writer’s mind’s eye, in my creative sanctum. This is for you, mocha woman:
I would bathe you, were God so willing . . .
Forgive me, I must observe social distance,
May I watch you bathe from six feet asunder?
Nubian woman, I admit, so weak is my resistance
Might there be a silver lining in Novel COVID?
This writer, truthfully, is no oath violator,
Social distance is protocol—but intimacy distance
Damn, isn’t that Corona a cruel instigator?
As my luck—call it misfortune—would have it
I just had to be a bachelor in this time of crisis,
Lonely is the greatest of the romance scribes
Krishtine, forgive me, but I’m compelled to write this:
Quarantine, Christ, man, that virus is so mean
Might it have read my most wishful intentions?
Locked in am I, sadly; sequestered are you
Images of your face populate my mentions…
They don’t know; they simply would not understand
Your majesty is worthy of ancestral treatment:
How our grandfathers adored our tender grandmothers
I’d fete you and honor that most sacred agreement:
Blackman, thou shall touch her as if an angel
Protect her from the pernicious elements all,
Gladly would be your human ventilator, I
Breathe from my lungs, woman, as we fall
Into a love even a pandemic cannot seize
Pray does this writer for your precious health,
What I would give to call and hear your voice
If it be the last in my ear, then take the wealth
That I’ve accumulated nearing 500 love letters
All corners of this loveless world are they,
Little did you know you’ve served inspiration
Krishtine, allow me this heartful message to convey:
Troubled times are these, hold on, babygirl
We will get to the other side of this darkness,
Bathe you I shall within intimacy distance
I think of you, mocha woman, I dare confess
May God keep you until then . . . .
With utmost tenderness,