I have grown sensible about love.
Not cautious.
Not cold.
Just unwilling to be fed crumbs
by people who call it a feast
because they wrapped it in a compliment.
At this point in my life,
I know the difference
between attention and devotion,
between noise and tenderness,
between a man who wants access
and a love that arrives
with clean hands, good timing,
and a reservation already made.
I am not difficult.
I am detailed.
There is a difference.
I like care with structure.
Affection with memory.
Desire with discipline.
A love that notices
I prefer my tea warm,
My silence respected,
my boundaries untouched,
And my flowers are alive.
I want to be loved
by someone who understands
That pampering is not performance.
It is precision.
It is the way he remembers
what I said in passing
and treats it like scripture.
It is the way he does not make me ask
for what he already knows I deserve.
It is the way he reaches for my bag
before the world can make my shoulders heavy.
It is the way peace enters the room
and somehow knows my name.
I have no interest
in being almost adored.
Almost is a cheap perfume.
It lingers too long
and never smells expensive.
Give me the love
that has been trained by God
and refined by accountability.
Give me the kind of care
That does not confuse softness
with weakness,
or luxury with vanity,
or a woman who enjoys being cherished
with a woman who cannot stand on her own.
Please.
I have stood on my own
in weather that had no manners.
I have carried entire seasons
without making a scene.
I have turned heartbreak
into furniture,
grief into etiquette,
and survival into a posture
so elegant
People mistook it for ease.
So yes,
I will take the tenderness.
I will take the door open,
The question asked,
The bill handled,
the bath drawn,
the prayer spoken,
The forehead kissed
like someone is honoring
the altar of my mind.
I will take love
that studies me without possession.
Love that protects
without policing.
Love that knows
a woman like me
does not need to be rescued,
But she does deserve
to be received.
And let us be clear:
I am not above being spoiled.
I am simply above being mishandled.
I enjoy beauty.
I enjoy devotion.
I enjoy being looked at
as though heaven had excellent taste
and finally decided
to make a point.
There is nothing frivolous
about being loved well.
A nervous world
will try to call it too much,
but too much for whom?
For the man who cannot plan?
For the hands that fumble?
For the heart that arrives empty
and still expects applause?
No, beloved.
I am not asking for excess.
I am asking for alignment.
The right love
does not make a woman smaller.
It gives her room
to unfold without apology.
It does not dim her fire.
It brings a lantern,
a chair,
and perhaps dessert.
Something rich.
Something intentional.
Something with chocolate,
because even the divine
understands punctuation.
So pamper me properly.
Love me with the intelligence
of someone who knows
Care is a language,
And I am fluent
in what is sacred.
Do not bring me chaos
and call it chemistry.
Do not bring me confusion
and call it a mystery.
Do not bring me neglect
and expect me
to translate it into depth.
I have retired
from romantic charity work.
Now, I require grace
with excellent follow-through.
I require affection
that can keep a calendar.
I require tenderness
that does not need a reminder
to become real.
And when love comes
with divine precision,
I will not shrink
to make it seem modest.
I will receive it.
Fully.
Radiantly.
With my good robe on.
Because being pampered
by the right hands
is not indulgence.
It is restoration.
It is what happens
When a woman who has carried too much
finally meets a love
wise enough
to carry the details-
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