Cape Town Awaits

Cape Town is not soft.
She just looks like she is.
All bougainvillea blush and high tea spoons, but she’ll gut you in a heartbeat if you come here small.

I dreamed her as my honeymoon long before I knew how love should taste.
Tea on a veranda with the mountain watching, waves slapping the shore with all the restraint of a woman scorned.
I used to picture lace gloves and champagne flutes.

Now I picture her — the woman who knows how to kiss me like she has something to prove to every girl who left without ever knowing what they were walking away from.

I’ve had exes call her a dump, say “why there?” as if beauty has to be convenient.
As if a city can only be holy if it fits inside their version of white.
Exes who couldn’t leave the country.
That was never the problem.
The problem was they couldn’t dream in color.
They couldn’t imagine a place where I was too much and still wanted.

But Cape Town?
Cape Town won’t flinch when I show up loud.
She is coast and cliff and cathedral and chaos.
She makes space for women like me— hungry and holy and hard to hold.

I want a wife who gets it.
Who books the flights without blinking.
Who tastes the sea breeze and says, I’ve been waiting for a place like this— for a love like this — my whole damn life.

We’ll eat passionfruit tartlets at the Mount Nelson.
We’ll get sand in our espresso.
She’ll pull me into the pool at midnight and whisper vows with her teeth.
Because Cape Town doesn’t beg to be visited.
She dares you to deserve her.

And I —
I am no longer accepting love that’s afraid of altitude.
Of history.
Of spice.
Of waves with something to say.

The next woman I love will come ready.
Shoes off.
Passport stamped.
Heart wide.
And she will never once ask me to be less.