desire

This Desire

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This one beckons to me.

.

I haven’t forgotten
how it feels to be desired.
Though I can’t quite decide
if that is blessing or curse,
and I’m not one for remorse
or small mercies
or false memories anyway.

Anyway, it’s cruel
to just look away.
Desire wants the rapt attention
the blind affirmation
of the widening iris —
the rush of blood to cheek —
it wants its own hubris.

Any which way
but dead, or so they say.
As though the furtive glance
the promise of some romance
that dark little gleam in the eye
is everything, is anything
but a lie.

.

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