There is a pressure just behind my ribs
That crushes me, yet I cannot shake it
Unmovable. Untouchable. Incurable.
On my lungs and heart, the weight of it sits.

What does this pressure pull me to?
Why does it threaten me with death?
Unknown. Uncharted. Insatiable.
It will not move until I've taken my last breath.

This is what it is to yearn
What it is to grasp with the soul.
This is what it is to burn
To ignite as desperation takes hold.

I crave this thing I don't know
It pulls at me day and night
Like an addiction, I need it frequently
Lest the anxiety, the panic, should strike.

But it is not a thing, it is a person, in plural
So very far outside my league, urban versus rural
This is not even remotely healthy, but I can't turn
From day to night, from sun to moon, I yearn.