Velvet Hunger

Everyone hungers for something, though few will call it by name. Some want a purse full of silver, some want a whisper of fame. Some chase the road for adventure, some need a hand in their own. Some fill a room full of laughter just so they won't drink alone. So don't look shocked when I tell you there's wanting beneath every skin. The saints simply call it temptation. The honest ones call it within. Velvet hunger, softly worn, smiling sweetly, hiding thorns. Nothing wicked, nothing strange— we all want something we cannot name. Velvet hunger, warm and bright, behaves so nicely in the light. Ask what I crave and I might tell you. Or perhaps I already have. You like to think you're discerning. I rather like that in you. You watch every smile that I offer as though one might finally prove there's something behind all the kindness, something beneath all the charm. A reason my hand feels too steady. A reason you notice my palm. You may keep watching if it pleases you. I've nothing at all to conceal. But isn't it strange how suspicion can make every innocent thing feel real? Velvet hunger, softly worn, smiling sweetly, hiding thorns. Nothing wicked, nothing strange— we all want something we cannot name. Velvet hunger, warm and bright, behaves so nicely in the light. Ask what I crave and I might tell you. Or perhaps I already have. The sailor hungers for harbor. The gambler hungers for chance. The poet hungers for sorrow. The lonely hunger for hands. The faithful hunger for answers. The frightened hunger for doors. And those who insist they want nothing— oh, I worry for them most of all. As for me? Mine is no stranger than yours is. No darker. No grander. No worse. I simply learned long ago how to dress an appetite well. Velvet hunger, softly worn, smiling sweetly, hiding thorns. Nothing wicked, nothing strange— we all want something we cannot name. Velvet hunger, warm and bright, behaves so nicely in the light. Ask what I crave and I might tell you. But would you believe me if I did? Perhaps I hunger for music. Perhaps for the warmth of this room. Perhaps for the look on your face when a harmless old song says too much. Perhaps there's no secret at all. Perhaps you're inventing the rest. Though I do find it charming how carefully you watch me breathe. Velvet hunger, velvet grace, every appetite wears a face. Call it longing. Call it sin. Call it whatever lets you sleep again. Velvet hunger, close and low, some things are sweeter not to know. So finish your drink. Forget what you heard. And if tomorrow you still suspect— you may always ask me again. Everyone hungers for something... Mine is no stranger- than yours.