Empty Ache

The clock pushed past one,

a quiet kind of hurt begun.

Not just empty, but hollowed out,

a tight, metallic doubt.

My stomach, a drum, vibrating low,

a dull, insistent blow.

Then, a window slid open,

a smell, suddenly spoken:

onions frying, sweet and hot.

And I stood there, rooted to the spot,

mouth dry, a thin, sharp need

beyond just a forgotten feed.