I do not announce my abundance—
It lingers.
Like the scent of herbs warming in oil,
slow, deliberate, unmistakable—
something ancient rising from the heat,
something that knows
It will be tasted before it is named.
I have learned this:
Wealth is not always counted.
Sometimes, it is felt—
in the way a room adjusts
when you enter without asking.
There is an art to this kind of presence.
An ease.
A refusal to hurry desire
or dilute essence.
I move like something steeped—
time-rich, sun-fed,
touched by hands that understood patience.
Call it sensual, if you must.
Call it erotic, even—
but not in the way the world has rushed to define it,
all urgency and spectacle.
No—
This is the quieter indulgence.
The slow appetite.
The kind that does not devour,
but savors.
I have become fluent in this language—
of glances that linger half a second longer,
of laughter that curves at the edge
as if it knows something you don’t—yet.
There is humor in it, too.
How easily the unseasoned mistake intensifies for depth.
How quickly they reach for what was never meant
to be rushed.
I watch, amused,
stirring my tea—
or perhaps my power—
Both require heat, both require restraint.
Abundance, you see,
is not loud in its truest form.
It simmers.
It perfumes the air.
It invites without insisting.
And those who recognize it—
Ah, they do not grab.
They lean in, slowly,
as one does over a table
set with something exquisite.
I have set that table.
Not for approval,
not for applause,
But because I understand
what it means to be both the offering
and the feast.
There is no scarcity here.
Only richness.
Only fullness.
Only the quiet, intoxicating certainty
that I am not to be consumed quickly.
But remembered.
Like a melody—
soft at first,
then impossibly lingering—
woven with spice, with warmth,
with something just out of reach.
And if that unsettles you—
this ease, this appetite, this knowing—
then perhaps
You have mistaken hunger
for power.
I am neither starving
nor searching.
I am seasoned.
I am sufficient.
I am—
deliciously,
undeniably—
abundant—
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