Desire Desire is of medium height. 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, 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 foever 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.