Desire

To be the object of desire
What must it feel like?

To want to be the object of desire
Is a disease drilled into the mind
You go round in blurry visions
Only to come home to disappointment
Like a period in The Handmaid’s tale

To be the object of desire must be like
Receiving a receipt
A stated, documented, confirmation
To want to be the object of desire is to search for it
In an old purse at the back of an unlit taxi
For a refund that now cannot be given
Time expires and moves on at the same time
How excruciatingly cruel

To be desired is to be powerful
Yet it invokes venerability
When she enters her favourite snooker room
Under preying eyes, timely observations from a corner
Her hips are caressed by the shaded faces
Their eyes touching her womanliness
Their pulses dance under a new rhythm
As she glides through the smoky air
Air thick with the pulses of sweating bodies
And the sound of a monotonic machine
As it produces receipt after receipt

At the moment she enjoys her confirmations
And she is happy
But when time expires and moves on
And then for the first time, she cannot get a refund
She is just like me
A diseased mind

Desire, what is it then
Can we touch it?
Or does it hide like a God behind some clouds
Or is it just a lie

Desire
It is both power and weakness
Which must mean there is no difference
Between being desirable
Or to seek to be desired
Because time expires and moves on
And we realise

We never owned desire
We never met desire
Desire was just a fallacy
A drilled disease into our minds
Making us mental
And the man moved on to someone new

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