Sutra — You called it love. But it was need, dressed in ceremony.

Sutra moves like breath on skin—slow, warm, and uninvited. This is not romance. It’s ache. It’s the moment desire detaches from truth and floats, weightless, toward something it was never meant to hold.

Dante descends and finds bodies writhing through storm winds—swept up, not in passion, but in punishment.

They are flung through eternity by the same force that once drew them to each other.

Their sin? Giving in.

Their curse? Never stopping.

The storm never ends—because neither did their want.

You watched from a distance, then wrote about it like you lived it.

You named her like she was yours.

You stared so long, you convinced yourself you understood.

But wanting someone is not the same as knowing them.

You didn’t ask before you touched her— you trespassed.

Over and over. In ink, in rhythm, in breath.

Sutra is ritual desecrated.

A prayer pulled apart at the seams.

You whispered our names like spells, and still expected to be holy.

This is Lust—not in its flame, but in its echo. Like a husk sizzling on the unforgiving asphalt under the hot summer sun, devoid, a shell, empty. Ready to blow away with the slightest breeze — ever after hangs from the rafters.