Dangerous & Interesting — Kevin Tyrone McMillion Jr.

Eyes that gleam like emeralds caught in moonlight, hair that catches silver with every passing step— what a dangerous woman you are. I have sharpened claws and fangs for the world, my gaze fixed on the greatness I believe I was made for, yet it always drifts back to you— pulled, undone, lured by something I cannot discipline in myself, enchanted by your essence. Enemies once surrounded me, swords drawn, chanting my downfall as I walked through a desert alone. I was thirsting for food, for water, for anything that would endure, while vultures wrote circles above my name in the sky. Yet none of them were as dangerous as you— not the vulture, not the wolf, not the blade. Only you— a single, exquisite, lethal flower. There is a bloom I cannot name without thinking of you, petals too perfect to be safe, opening as if the world itself had asked it to exist. It does not chase— it simply is, and still everything bends toward it. The waters of my mind surge and swell, storms gathering where silence should have been. Rain falls without permission, seas rising as if memory itself were tidal. And I think: you must be the moon, for only the moon commands the tides without ever touching them. How fitting— in darkness, you are light. Your eyes shimmer like stars scattered across night’s velvet sky. If beauty ever forgot its reflection, it would look at you to remember itself. The essence of beauty stands before me, alive in motion— every laugh a hymn too soft for language, every glance a sentence I cannot finish. And I find myself wondering, quietly, helplessly, how something so complete can feel so distant. How endlessly… how impossibly… The Sun has the moon. And I— I had you.