Like water to lightning,
a seismic jolt of frisson
rattles and French-kisses the sentience of cognition,
and I am all at once made both fragmented and whole
within the scatter-sighted eye of Lust's suspension of burgeoning.
What is its mystery?
Does it covet only Beauty?
For not all the eye sees does it want,
and not all the eye longs to take in, does it see.
Along with food, sheltering, love and hydration lies Longing,
an essential of costly underestimation and omission.
And truly, is it a matter of what we want, or what wants us?
The latter too often opposes the former.
Is the Who desired any more nobly than the it?
For you see, with Lust, the lusted after is always merely an object
of the subjectification of our need for need.
Without want, we so quickly become wanted not,
especially by those who wanted us only at the very peak of our wanting them.
Perhaps this explains why, even after the had-not is now possessed,
want tends to either completely wane or intensify.
Yet our utmost decline always begins at that moment
when we must ask ourselves what we want,
and can no longer provide the answer, for ourselves.
