After-Dinner Ache

Plate wiped clean,

the good food all gone,

a richness of flavor

that lingered till dawn.

But deep in the stomach,

a hollow still hums.

A beat, a low drum,

that nothing quite numbs.

Not bread, not hot tea,

not even sweet fruit.

A longing that grows

from some buried-down root.

A thirst not for water,

a need not for sleep.

A promise unkept,

a secret to keep.

It isn't for something

I chew or I taste.

It's a shape of an absence,

a terrible haste

to fill what is empty,

a space I can't name.

The gut's quiet echo,

a flickering flame.