I’ve discovered that I have a craving for Grace. Intelligence, dance, wit, and form.
I’m desiring charm and movement like a sleek black panther purring his way toward me. I want to render clemency like pure scented wax, I want to dream of Euphrosyne when I think of my lover. Elegance might become a priority soon, paired with allure encased in a decent dose of heavy heady aesthetic. There must be desire, there must be subtle glamour like sweet lovely magic. Social charm, the time of day in the tilt of your head, something strong to break my heart.
I don’t know when this happened. I can’t explain how hard it was to drag this from inside of me. Refinement of desire into only one word, sleep-talking my way through the pacifying, “I don’t want anything really.” until the sky lit up with a seemingly effortless flash of understanding. A sense of style, I think I watch for it and I drink it down. I want the grace to look embarrassed, refinement of the most terrible proportion.