An intellectually promiscuous woman

  

An intellectually promiscuous woman,

drifting through ideas, philosophies, textures.

 

A courtesan of the mind, seducing every theory.

Flirting with forbidden dogmas,

letting concepts undress thoughts,

then discarding them.

 

Polyamorous with knowledge.

Collecting concepts like lovers.

Unfaithful to any single truth.

 

Solitude has its own intelligence.

I know a soul, intimately.

 

My relationship with it—devotional.

spoon-feed its truth,

cultivate its wild edges,

worship its resilience.

 

While roaming the halls of the ego,

during those Bewitching Hour moments,

the moon observes the soul entering in and out of my corridors,

as hidden chambers recess into the dark. 

Self-possession feels natural,

yet so does union.

 

I do not come to you empty.

So when I meet you, I do not need;

I choose.

 

I desire.

I desire?

I desire! 

 

Or, does the sentence simply remain unfinished: I desire