When a Black man loves, fiercely, Two white men— And they do not love him back— It is not simply heartbreak. It is the rupture of a thousand unspoken things. It is grief braided with clarity, Love offered like a feast, Received as a favor, then refused. He loves them not as fantasy, But as men—whole, flawed, breathing— He touches their skin, pale as fields before the storm, And calls it beautiful without wanting to own it. He listens to their silences, their stammered truths, Their tangled need and fleeting tenderness. He lets them lie in his arms Like borrowed peace. But they do not return. Not truly. Not fully. Their kisses hesitate. Their bodies tremble—not with love, but with fear. They say “you’re wonderful,” But never “I want to stay.” They vanish into the comfort of whiteness, As if his love were only a detour On the way back to safety. And the Black man? He does not harden. He burns. He walks the length of his sorrow like a prophet in the desert, Each step a revelation. He does not ask why he was not enough— Because he was more than enough. He gave them a glimpse of what it meant To be cherished in a world that forgets how. He gave softness where history gave chains. He gave joy where conquest gave ghosts. They could not hold what he offered. Not because it was too little— But because it was too much. Too honest. Too tender. Too true. So he rises. Not untouched— But undefeated. He carries the ache like a second spine, And with it, a vow: To never again offer his love To those who treat it like borrowed fire— Warming their hands, Then leaving him to burn alone. Because his love is not a lesson. It is not a threshold. It is a kingdom. And one day, Someone will kneel—not in submission, But in awe— And say: I have found home. R Hughes 2025