When a white man experiences love from a Black man, it can be one of the most profound reckonings of the soul—if he allows it to be. It is more than affection. It is more than desire. It is the thunderclap of history echoing in his chest, And the gentle balm of a hand that chooses not to strike, But to hold. When a Black man loves a white man, he carries the weight of centuries. He loves not blindly—but bravely. He sees the fissures, the fault lines, the fragile myths That scaffold the white man's world. And still, he says, I see you. And I choose to touch you anyway. For the white man, it is a disrobing: Not just of clothes, but of illusions. He learns that love is not sterile—it is sacred. It has a taste, a rhythm, a scent: Sweet sweat, low hums, the ache of restraint undone. He learns that love is not colorless. It is richly hued, Like dark molasses dripped on warm bread, Like a spiritual played in minor key under a new moon. It teaches him what his ancestors never did: That Blackness is not an absence, but an abundance. That to be loved by a Black man is to be seen through fire—and still found worthy. If he receives this love with humility, It can undo him in the best of ways. It can unteach him conquest. It can teach him presence. It can teach him silence—not the silence of ignorance, But the silence of reverence. He may weep, Not because he is sad, But because he never knew that tenderness could feel so much like grace. And if he dares— He will spend the rest of his days Not trying to deserve that love, But to honor it. And that, is how love becomes a revolution. R Hughes 2025