I feel the urge rising.
Not unlike the bile creeping up your throat, reacting to gluttony.
Not unlike taste buds feeling the scorch of a Moruga scorpion after a bout of flu.
Not unlike the soul put back into the volume surrounded by four white walls when a painting is installed in their midst.
Not unlike a long cold stove soiled by spilled hot milk and spitting oil.
Not unlike the first sight after a long absence is of someone you hold most dear.
The fondness after blooms after a parched summer of longing. I did not ask to walk on the cracked soil in unsheltered heat. But now, as I set my sights on an oasis, dip my calloused feet into the soothing touch of water, I look with gratitude upon something that I would have seen without notice.