The most touching thing about Jay and Bey at the Grammys:
an impromptu prose poem
Wasn’t her leaning into him while he rapped.
Wasn’t the grin on his face watching her strut.
Wasn’t the grip of his hands on her fatty.
Wasn’t the hug and kiss they shared.
Wasn’t even the surfborting they pantomimed
(Bey better than Jay).
It was the tiniest, non-sexual clasp of their hands
as Beyonce stepped down platforms in undoubtedly 6-inch+ heels.
He helped her down the stairs;
simple, but the gesture moved me.
It was the way she held her hand up and he grasped it
without looking, as if he is used to catching her
before she’s even in danger of falling.
This is what it means to be drunk in love,
that you are ready to catch your spouse’s hiccups
without much fanfare. Because love is a sobering state
that you must be at least a little romantically inebriated
to live in forever.
Read my take on why the Grammys don’t matter at Truly Tafakari.