The Hunger
It is the edge that matters.
The place where the meadow grass stops
and the dark wood begins.
Not the easy center,
which never welcomed anything that mattered.
Desire lives here.
In the breath that lingers,
before the skin touches.
It is the pulse of what might happen.
Tell me, how do we mistake this necessary instinct
for salvation?
Once, we were a singular body,
whole, but carrying two fates.
The split left its bright, cold hollow,
a wound the sun could never warm.
A hunger the centuries could not erase.
This is why flesh reaches first.
Why the stranger can feel like recognition.
Not a miracle, but a memory made visible.
The opening scene of lust
is always the most dangerous.
The seduction:
it burns cleaner than the act,
leaves fewer scars,
yet goes deeper.
I create now from the place above the wound.
From the knowing that this longing is only an inheritance,
a map drawn deep into our souls.
There is a black bird
of instinct and memory
perched inside me,
watchful, elemental,
whispering that eros
was never meant to save me,
only to awaken me.
©Gesso Cocteau
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