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I want the kind of love that feels like jazz club after hours.

The kind of love like sitting at your kitchen table at two a.m. in a T-shirt, underwear, and a satin bonnet watching chai swirl in your cup while listening to Ahmad Jamal play on the record player and peacefully watching raindrops cascade down bay windows kind of love.

I want the kind of love that swirls up inside you, like how cigarette smoke fills the air to bring out the more profound ambiance somehow that a nearby saxophonist has created.

The kind of love like bumping house classics on the ride home from work when the universe for a slight moment feels silent, and it feels like you are the only thing in motion for hours kind of love.

I want the kind of love that smells like Palo Santo candles burning in the dark and faint smells of cocoa butter smothered in top sheets.

The kind of love that never ceases to stop spinning like ceiling fans and air conditioners in Georgia heat and the smell of rain coming in from the bathroom window marking the end of summer and the revolution of autumn at our doorsteps kind of love.

I want the kind of love that doesn’t let you forget the kind of love you want.

The kind of love like bossa nova during breakfast, gypsy jazz for lunch, smooth jazz for dinner, and maybe avant-garde for dessert.

The kind of love that is always tinted dark like jazz club after hours.