Xexecuda

There is a sacred sort of hunger that has nothing to do with flesh... it lives in the quiet things.

In the man who notices her coffee has gone cold and warms another without being asked. In the calloused hand that settles at the small of her back, to remind the world she does not walk alone.

A woman does not bloom because she is showered in diamonds. She blooms because someone learns the language of her silences. Because he reaches for her hand in crowded places. Because he kisses her forehead before dawn and listens to every word she utters.

And in the hush between moments she discovers the truest desire is not to be wanted for a moment...

It is to be cherished, day after ordinary day.