Butterflies of Desire

Desire. It is unlikely that any portrait will ever do Desire justice, since to see her (or him) is to love him (or her), passionately, painfully, and to the exclusion of all else.
Desire smells almost subliminally of summer peaches, and casts two shadows: one black and sharp-edged, the other translucent and forever wavering, like heat haze. Desire smiles in brief flashes, like sunlight glinting from a knife-edge. And there is much else that is knife-like about Desire. Never a possession, always the possessor, with skin as pale as smoke, and eyes tawny and sharp as yellow wine.
Desire is everything you have ever wanted.
Whoever you are. Whatever you are.
Everything.