Not like an itch that yearns to be scratched.
But like the scent of bread rising in the afternoon
that awakens an appetite and hints
at a coming taste of joy. Not like a fire
that consumes, but like an orange -
skin peeled away and opened wide,
the generosity of its sections, hoping to be shared.
It's not hunger to wait for relief, but delight.
And not relief when relief comes,
but headlong abandon.