Reawakening of want

The world likes its passion photogenic, its longing braided into long glossy hair, lifted from magazines or spun in champagne ads.

After fifty, they would have me silent, a dim lamp in the corner. But I am no lamp. I am the lightning, the hunger that keeps gnawing, the red silk thrown over the bedroom chair, daring someone to wear it tonight.​

What does desire look like once gravity has staked its claim? I want to know. My body, whispering under soft sweaters, is not an apology. I write in the language of skin on skin, muscle memory that outlasts youth, ache that becomes strength, the electric shock of touch.

In the half-light, I find my hands remember everything. Lovers gone, lovers imagined, lovers forbidden. I undress for no one and for everyone.

For the memory of teeth at my shoulder, for the ache that sharpens, that does not fade. Has desire ever truly retired? Does it grow faint, or does it call itself by gentler names? By yearning, nostalgia, delight? I claim every one. In the garden of my becoming, the body is not retiring, only ripening. In these limbs, love is calling.

They would have me believe that the world stops watching, yet it is here that my lust blooms unchecked. An erotic, private feast? The world is a mirror. I performed youth for them, for the hungry gaze. Now, in the cracked glass, I perform for myself. I count every freckle, every pale scar. Who enters when the watchers leave? It is desire herself, slippered and sly, asking what might happen if I don’t dim the lights.

Is this longing a rebellion, or is it simply remembering how? I let questions slip between my thighs, let shame run cold. My pulse is a confessional, unashamed. I want new stories mapped in sweat, stories traced in the bloom of unplanned passions, threaded with memory and daring.

No, I will not fade. I will not grow invisible. It will echo through the houses and hallways and half-empty beds.

When the world stopped watching, my desire grew bolder. I do not need their eyes to ignite me. Light comes from within, always did.

The lamp they imagined has become a flame, a fire. I am burning with want, teeth bared in the glow, waiting for love.