The room is small enough
to hold every breath—
and still, something waits
just beyond what we can name.
Oil and dust cling to the evening.
Hands—
so many hands—
that have taken,
blessed,
betrayed without knowing
the exact hour of their turning.
He does not lift a crown.
Only bread.
Simple as hunger.
Breakable as trust.
And in that quiet fracture
something passes between them—
not seen,
not proven,
but entering
like warmth into cold fingers.
I have known this before:
the way a body can become
offering
without spectacle,
without witness,
only the soft, irreversible
yes
of being consumed
by love.
“Take—”
the word rests
like a pulse in the mouth,
unfinished until answered.
What is given
does not diminish.
What is taken
does not satisfy.
Still—
we reach.
Wine follows—
dark, remembering the vine,
remembering the slow patience
of sweetness becoming ache.
He calls it blood.
And no one refuses.
I feel it—
that trembling consent
we carry in secret:
to be filled
and undone
in the same breath.
Outside,
the night gathers its witnesses.
Inside,
the table becomes
something else—
not wood,
not ritual,
but a threshold
where absence begins
its long work
inside presence.
Tell me—
when the body is given
and the silence after is deeper than before,
what remains of us
that is not already
being shared?
My 3DXChat life 