We don't always know what it is.
It just rises.
Like a smoke that doesn't rise
but doesn't fall either.
Something that pulses,
without a heartbeat,
on the edges of thought.
We call it desire,
though we never fully saw it.
Perhaps it was a shapeless figure,
a crack in the now
through which the impossible peeks.
And we follow it.
With our eyes closed,
with our feet in the air.
Because something in its emptiness
seems to promise
a new form.
But then, without warning,
expectation is born.
And desire which was fog
becomes an architecture of smoke,
an imaginary house
with rooms that don't yet exist
but we already inhabit.
The play of signs begins.
We look at the wind,
the silence,
the cracks of the day,
as if a sign were hidden in one of them.
And time, which was once simple,
curves.
It stretches.
It disguises itself as "not yet."
Desire becomes a vertex.
In a straight line toward nowhere.
But we continue,
because something,
something nameless,
knows that if we let go,
we'll be left without ground.
And yet,
sometimes we wonder:
was it desire that was advancing,
or were we
pushing its shadow?
Perhaps it wasn't an end.
Perhaps only a movement.
Like a flower
that never opens,
but in its attempt,
is already a garden.