Fearless Confessions

You can feeling the yearning.
You can taste.
Hear it.
Almost touch it.
It follows you around, on the hem of your jeans, hanging there silent and heavy. It pulls with uninhibited inconsideration at what you are doing, jerks at you with dogmatic precision and whispers with gentle caresses. It never leaves, but neither does stay close enough for you to hold and real enough for you see. It dances just out of reach, teasing, laughing and winking and then falls back in step just behind, dust in its wake and fire in its eyes.

If you look back it will slide to the left and if you look to the left it will slide to the right, but it always pushes you forward, pleading for a chance to show you it's dreams. One by one they flash in before your eyes, leaving you breathless and aching. And when it touches your belly with that finger of desire you flail and writhe, begging for mercy and but asking for more. You cover your ears, but your heart is unguarded, then you close your eyes, but your feet keep moving. There is no power to stop it on earth or in heaven.

And so you walk and then you run, but the yearning remains, holding your hands and kissing your feet. The strength of its will and the fury of its devotion sweep you off your feet and you fall panting in the dirt.

It really does not have a name, but the only one I can come up with today is this: Heaven is out there, reminding me I belong there and not here and it will never let up until I am home.