The Truth of Wanting

There are truths the body knows
long before we are brave enough
to speak them.

They live beneath thought,
beneath reason,
beneath all the careful ways
we arrange our lives
into what should be.

A quickening pulse.
A held breath.
Heat rising beneath the skin
at the thought of someone
who should not have such power
over us.

Desire is honest that way.

It does not ask what is sensible.
It does not care what we have decided
or how carefully we have drawn the lines.

It simply says:

Here.

This.

You.

And if we become still enough,
if we stop explaining
and defending
and pretending not to feel
what we already feel,

there is something beneath the wanting.

Recognition.

The ache of being seen.
The intoxication of being desired.
The delicious surrender
of letting someone close enough
to awaken the parts of us
we keep hidden from the rest of the world.

Passion is not always a fire
that consumes.

Sometimes it is an ember
we carry quietly for years,
warm beneath the surface,
waiting for the smallest breath
to make it glow again.

And maybe that is why
some desire refuses to disappear.

Because the body remembers.

Because longing remembers.

Because somewhere beneath
all the noise of what we should want,
there remains the quiet, sensual truth
of what we do.

And sometimes,
when we finally stop thinking
and simply listen,

we can still hear it whisper.