Desire. 
How many kinds are there?

Desire is your eyes that gleam with moist lies.
Desire is your mouth and its dry sighs.
Desire is your hands, the worlds they shape, the words they create.
Desire is your chest heaving with what you do not say and what you cannot say.
Desire is your feet flying through the playground of memories and dreams.
Desire is the blood that roars in your veins, gushing like a brook, babbling in tongues.

How many names do I give desire?

How is it that all these names begin with the first syllable of your name and end with the last note of my howl?

How many names can desire have?

For me, each of those names resonate in you. Each of those names is you.
For me, desire is you fumbling through the slippery passageways of new truths.
For me, desire is you finding meaning and reasons for being, in journeys that unsettle you.
For me, desire is your journeys that start with dead ends and stalemates, journeys that you must make anyway.

For me, desire is your eyes, wide with sleep and mine, pressed shut by your kisses.