EZRA
S i x m o n t h s.
One hundred and eighty-two days since I walked away from her. And still, every poem I wrote found its way back to Yaya. I never said her name in interviews and honestly, I didn't need to. She was in the ink. In every line I spit, every page I filled and every silence I broke. Yaya was the reason the world fell in love with my pain. I wrote her into everything. And the crazy part? I was thriving.
I had a dope penthouse out in Brooklyn with big ass windows that caught the sunrise like scripture. Hardwood floors. Stainless steel. Minimal furniture. It didn’t feel like home yet, but the shit was dope.
I'd decided to start driving again and bought a black-on-black Benz AMG coupe. It was the first thing I ever had with my name on it that didn’t come with trauma attached. And, my debut book of poetry, Ink to Bone, hit #3 on the charts two weeks after release. Everyone called me “a rising voice from the soul of the streets.”
TikTok had teens mouthing my lines like scripture. The video for Dead Flowers & Gold streamed two million times in a week on YouTube. I didn’t even promote it. I was blowing up quickly but fame doesn’t heal you. It just makes your wounds look beautiful in public. And no matter how many fans told me I saved them… I still couldn’t save us.
That afternoon, I stood in front of my closet with a half empty glass of Henny and a heavy silence around me. My iced out Cuban link rested against my bare chest as I stared at myself in the mirror.
I had to get ready for my book signing in Harlem at The Verse House. It was an independent Black-owned bookstore that had carried Langston Hughes before Amazon existed. I finished getting dressed in a hunter green button-down, sleeves rolled to my elbows, and dark grey jeans. My wrists lit up in ice. Then, I adjusted my rings and laced my black boots before my phone rang.
“Yo,” I answered, clearing my throat.
“You dressed?” My agent, Ty, asked.
“Walkin’ out now.”
“They’re lined up outside. Local press is there, plus the company sent a film crew.”
“Cool,” I said, grabbing my keys.
Ty paused, then lowered his voice. “I know today’s big for you, E. So… whatever you’re carrying? Use it. Don’t run from it.”
I hung up without replying, letting his words settle somewhere between my ribs.
T h e s t r e e t s o f Harlem were alive. The people were out, a mix of black, brown and beautiful. Hoodies and heels. Locs and lashes. Kids on scooters. OGs playing chess at the corner.
I turned onto Malcolm X Boulevard and let the bass from Common bleed out my speakers. The bookstore appeared ahead and, true enough, a line stretched around the corner. My name glowed on a sandwich board sign: LOWE: INK TO BONE — LIVE READING + SIGNING.
Inside, the energy shifted the moment I walked in. People stood shoulder to shoulder. Black faces glowing in warm light as they held books and phones in the air. There were snaps, cheers and claps. I nodded, soaking it in. I was grateful.
Ty guided me to the mic set up near the back wall. My book cover was enlarged behind me. It was a portrait of myself in grayscale, shirtless, locs framing my face, eyes shut like I was mid-confession. I greeted the crowd and then took the mic. Quickly, the room fell quiet and I closed my eyes and let it flow.
"They say men don’t cry, so I bled instead. Words for wounds, poems for what I should’ve said. She was peace in a storm I kept spinning. Tried to hold her in my palms, but they kept thinning. We built love from silence and flame.
Tore it down, but I still whisper her name. She ain’t mine, but she was never a phase. Just a verse I still write on my off days. So if you ever see her, brown skin, soft voice. Tell her I’m still hers… if she ever had a choice." The snaps came slow at first before the thunderous claps. I bowed my head and exhaled.
At the signing table, there were books of mine stacked sharpies, and bottled water. People filed up one by one and each story was more humbling than the last.
“You saved my life, Saint.”
“Your words sound like my diary.”
“I left him because of your poem about worth.”
I signed every copy and welcomed every picture. Let the gratitude wash over me. And then, I looked up and my breath stopped. Nothing prepared me for the sight of her.
Yaya wore a long pea coat with a brown sweater dress that hugged her curves with grace and her locs pulled up into two large buns. Her gold hoops caught the light but it wasn’t the look that hit me. It was the stillness in her eyes. That deep, slow, knowing stillness. The kind that saw straight through fame and followers. The kind that once knew my heart better than I did.
She stepped forward slowly, holding Ink to Bone against her chest. My hand trembled over the Sharpie as she softly said, “Hey.” She had a hand on her belly. Her round belly. It was obvious she was pregnant.
My pulse drummed louder as I signed her book. The world seemed to shrink around her. “Hey,” I managed, voice rough with shock, emotion, everything unsaid. My eyes flicked to her stomach. She caught the glance, eyes softening.
“It’s good to see you,” she said quietly, sensing my internal storm. “You look good, Ezra.”
“So do you,” I replied softly, emotion thick.
“Thanks.” Her voice trembled a bit. “We can… talk after.”
I nodded slowly, unable to form words. “Stick around.”
She stepped aside, giving space for the next person in line, but lingered nearby, her fingers running over book spines, eyes occasionally meeting mine.
The rest of the signing was a blur. Autographs, smiles, pictures. But my attention stayed fixed on Yaya. Her energy filled the bookstore. Finally, the event ended and the lights dimmed as the crowd thinned. She was still there, standing near the poetry shelf, book in hand, lost in thought. I approached slowly, heart thundering.
“You stayed.”
She turned toward me, her smile softening again, nervousness flickering in her eyes. “I told you I would.”
We walked out together, stepping into Harlem’s nighttime hum. The air was warm, scented with the city’s soul that was street food, perfume and smoke. We faced each other on the sidewalk, silence settling heavily between us, carrying everything unsaid.
Just as I opened my mouth to speak, to ask about her, the pregnancy, the last six months, Ty interrupted, rushing toward me, phone glued to his ear.
“Ezra, yo! We gotta bounce. The guest appearance at the day party, remember? You’re already running late.”
I glanced at Ty sharply, frustration tight in my jaw. “Now?”
“Now.” He looked apologetic, but firm. “Fans are waiting. Money is on the line.”
My eyes shifted back to Yaya, noticing the brief flash of disappointment in her gaze. “I forgot I got some shit to do but—”
“It’s okay,” she said softly, understanding but clearly affected. “You should go. Handle your business.”
“How long you here?” I asked quickly, desperately. “In New York?”
“Just the weekend,” she said gently. “Came to support you… and do some shopping.”
I exhaled, running my hand over my locs, torn. “Ya number still the same?”
She nodded, eyes holding mine tightly. “It hasn’t changed.”
“I’mma call you as soon as I’m done,” I promised. “Answer when I do. Aight?”
She smiled faintly, something warm but guarded. “Okay. I’ll answer.”
“Ezra...” Ty pressed again, anxious.
“I’m comin’.” I turned back to her, stepping closer. “Don’t leave until we talk, Yaya. Promise me.”
She held my eyes, vulnerable and hopeful. “I promise.”
I stepped back reluctantly, allowing Ty to pull me toward the waiting SUV. Looking over my shoulder, I caught one last glimpse of her standing beneath the bookstore’s warm glow, her hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of her stomach.
The car pulled away, but my heart stayed behind, tangled in questions I needed answers to. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and exhaled. Because seeing her again just reminded me that the past wasn’t finished with us yet.