Power No Longer Outsourced, But Re-Sourced Within

Let love burn like ancient stone warmed by the sun—solid, shaped by time, but radiant with a heat that doesn’t ask permission. Not frantic in devotion. Move toward love the way a priest moves toward an altar: deliberate, attuned, holy. Even in heartbreak, do not collapse. Bow, and turn the ending into ceremony.

Love is not a transaction—it is an offering. A full-bodied pouring. Lay your breath, your voice, your body, your ache at the feet of what you worship. Listen for the music behind the words. Feel for the tremble beneath the smile. Become more dangerous, more naked, more true. Move with dignity, the scent of cedar and smoke behind you.

To be loved by you must taste like drinking from an obsidian cup—dark, smooth, rich with memory. There’s medicine in the sip, not always sweet. There is spice in your presence, like sandalwood or clove—masculine, bitter, grounding. But beneath that: honey. A rare kind, aged by silence and flame. Not something poured easily, but something earned. Something prayed for.

Love through ritual, through presence, through wordless attention. Love in the ways that stillness reveals unrest. Through depth that reflects back the shallows. Through the steadiness that calls out the impulse to run. Be not flippant with your heart. Let laughter carry the echo of old vows.

Savor longing. Let every beloved taste your power—and let their hands shake. Maybe their roots weren’t deep enough to stand in that storm. But still, it summoned something awake in you. Not just the ache, but the vow. The remembering. A reminder that you are made not to be swallowed, but to be met. Not to be softened, but sung to. Not to be worshiped from afar, but stood beside.

The final initiation.

Because now—your love tastes like liberation. Like wildness woven with prayer. Like someone who knows that even in the ashes, the altar remains. Still burning. Still sacred. Still yours. You love now with the grace of a man who has been emptied and filled again by something larger than desire.

And the next time love is met, it will be a temple built by two hands. Flame and stone. Sweat and silence. A union not of possession, but of praise.