Wanting

But is the highest form of wanting, 
to not want?

To let things be. To be. Without wanting. 
As if want diminishes itself. 
For want seeks expression. Wants words.

And words distort want. 
Because words want other words. 
Words want to be heard. 

What do you want that is beyond a word? 
Beyond any word? Beyond want?

Take a plant primed to flower. 
Not wanting rain. 
Just holding the possibility of the flower.
Not waiting. Just being under the sky. 
The sky knows this. And the plant. 
And the water that isn’t rain yet. 
And time that isn’t the time to flower yet. 
And the flower that isn’t a flower, yet. 

The sum of all that potential is not want. 
Is not a word. It existed before words. 
Words constrain it. 
Language craves it so it can survive. 
Silence tries to spell it without alphabets.

Like the air inside a balloon. 
It doesn’t need the balloon to rise. 
It doesn’t know the balloon. 
It doesn’t need a wrapper to be itself. 

I look at you and that is my secret. 
I know it without words. 
You feel it in spite of words. 
All the not wanting.
That we will not tell each other. 

Like the plant and the sky 
and the air and the water. 
The way we knew that night
how, without wanting,
how, beyond want,
we were holding the possibility 
of dawn.

#Poetry

From July 2023