The Phantom

The phantom comes back

when she pulls the bread open.

It's 3pm on a Tuesday

and my stomach

suddenly remembers

it has been empty for thirty hours.

Not a sharp thing.

The kind of hunger that pretends

it's already given up.

I watch her mouth close

around the sandwich.

I watch the crumbs

she doesn't notice fall.

The body keeps its own calendar.

The body keeps time

without permission.

It's been so long since I felt

the difference between

wanting and not wanting.

Her teeth break through

the lettuce.

I look away.

My throat hurts

but not from hunger.