The five bolded lyrics represent a line from five magnificent songs by k.d. lang, as found on her CD Ingenue, a frequent soundtrack to my mad typing.

What the Hollow Soul Craves

I've been outside myself for so long, any feeling I have is close to gone.

….What she remembers, when the moonlight coats her panting panic, is the sense of existing outside her own body. Captivity is better endured when not present and thus she escaped the taste of dirt and blood. Some part of her was never there. Her impending death was viewed from outside herself, impassive and waiting. Not ready but sadly resigned. But in the mind space where she'd stored her better self, she was not alone. There were other voices, encouraging, companionable. But only one face. She needed no more than that. Than him. Once physical freedom was granted with a grin and a confession, she locked up that alternate place. Still needed but not allowed. Like him. Life proceeds through a closed door that keeps her inner sanctum safe. All else feels dead. Until he smiles and the pieces she left outside herself move within the grasp of all she hides inside.

….Working toward whole.

Fate must have a reason, why else endure the season of hollow soul?

….The colors are too bright for eyes so recently beset by the dullness of brown and gray. Her surroundings had been a mirror for her heart; flat, dry and lifeless. When she first returned from the desert, the vibrancy of a world that hadn't died with her blurred in her vision. Life moves on, despite his admission that he hadn't. The yellow sun still stalks a blinding track in the blue sky, the greens still flourish after the frost. It's the red that bothers her most, the one primary color that hadn't left her side in Africa. But it's the purple of spring flowers that attracts her now. She separates a bud from its stem, pitying the act of execution but unable to mourn. The royal shade is tucked into the buttonhole of his lapel and while he doesn't understand the gesture, she is rewarded with that smile for which she survived hell and its lies.

….She learns to live for the glow.

Constant craving has always been.

....No one understands her moods now. She has become increasingly unpredictable, emotions as far flung as a ship tossed by wicked waves. The reasons had varied; the burying of memories, the waking dreams and the irrational fear of small spaces and dirt on floors. Lately, the cause has narrowed into singularity. While not sufficiently recovered, she is adequately functional and this has the unfortunate side effect of making her want. An inconvenient predicament on many levels, the most profound involving a closeness that could reveal her secrets. Indulging in the thirst would mean drinking from the cup of exposure and she is not certain he's ready for her poison. But she wants and what has always been between them has ventured past temptation and entered a state of destiny. It has always been.

….The day approaches when it will simply be.

I can exist being caught by your kiss, willingly.

….It registers somewhere in the thick of lust that he is waiting. It's unexpected and the tang of disappointment pricks on her tongue. A year ago, he wouldn't have sought permission, the impulsive man not lacking in gallantry so much as owning a significant passion that typically overcomes hesitation. But not now. Not with her. Because she is damaged, he is cautious. He hushes her despair, etching promises into the skin that others scarred. Her death broke him but her resurrection has forged his patience. What had been anticipated as a rushing of need becomes a slow sinking into the soul of another. She can live in this moment, with his gentle hands and possessive lips. She is caught up in the thoroughness by which he consumes her, aching in its leisure until she understands his purpose; the gathering of her shards to burn them into cohesion. What pieces are missing, he fills himself and she's not just whole.

….They are.

Still somehow thrives this love, which I pray I'm worthy of.

….Even in bondage, the Sabbath remained detectable. Nothing else wears the scent, the feel of the Holy Day. A block on the calendar meant for rest, for contemplation and gratitude. Impossible goals once, when her life was ruled by a father who knew no contentment, a mother who knew no respite and a responsibility that defied appreciation. What appeared strong had been withered within the able flesh, a flower shriveled beneath the stinging glare of a critical sun. That sun is kinder now and when the Sabbath arrives on a dawn punctuated by his sleepy smile, her shrunken insides are regenerated. Unworthiness once made her question her right to such a man but he will have no other. And as he feeds her a steady diet of joy, the nutrition of the loved, she has blossomed in the joining. She knows now why the flower turns its tender face to the sun.

….A craving to thrive.