Desire

My heart hammers, hungry to break free from the cage of my chest.

Its throbbing tremors ripple through every fingertip, every toe, as though my whole body is an echo of its pulse.

Yet the small machine on my wrist insists my rhythm is slow, steady, and serene.

I can’t catch my breath.

Still in my seat, yet my lungs labor as if I’ve been sprinting through shadows of desire.

I send my breath downward, begging my breath to deepen into my belly, to center me,

but the air escapes, elusive, refusing to root me.

The fan exhales a cool whisper across my skin

I am hot in a room that is 70 degrees.

My thoughts surge—racing yet razor-sharp,

a paradox of frenzy and focus.

It feels like anxiety, but there is no fear.

It feels like the moment before I step onto a stage to perform

But there are no butterflies.

It is dopamine—deliciously restless,

driving the ache of anticipation, a hunger for the horizon.

It is serotonin—softening the storm,

steadying the swell so longing does not consume itself.

It is oxytocin—the sacred tether,

the touch that binds, the kiss that brands,

turning raw yearning into radiant belonging.

It is desire itself—feral, fragile, and full.

Today, I will not rush.

I will not chase climax,

nor collapse into quick and shallow satisfaction.

I will sit with these chemicals coursing through my veins,

singing of pleasure just beyond reach, for now.

I will savor the suspension,

this bated breath, this trembling threshold.

I will cradle my heart as she craves.

Honoring the truth she already holds.

For I have cultivated this fire carefully,

invited it with reverence,

welcomed it with open arms.

To rush it away would be betrayal.

To linger in it is devotion.

And in that lingering, desire becomes prayer.