There was a time before desire had a reputation.
Before instinct became something to tame.
The body already knew.
It knew the language of touch. Of rhythm. Of stillness. Of pursuit. Of retreat.
Not because it was immoral.
Not because it was holy.
Simply because it was alive.
Perhaps the sacred was never the absence of desire.
Perhaps the sacred was the ability to meet it consciously---
without worshipping it, without fearing it, without dividing ourselves because of it.