The ache that won’t sit

Hunger gnaws sharp and raw,

a twist deep in the dark hours,

not the kind fixed with crumbs,

but one that clutches, slow,

a cold engine running out.

Fingers drum the empty counter,

a hollow sound like footsteps

walking away from the fridge,

where light hums low,

a hum that makes my stomach twist.

This hunger doesn’t sit down,

doesn’t let me rest in quiet,

it snarls in my ribs,

waiting for something I can’t reach,

and I pace in the kitchen’s cold glow.