The Empty Roar, or, Yogurt's Indifference

A growl, from somewhere deep,

not from hunger, not exactly.

The fridge light spills, a cold,

blue-white, on everything:

leftover pasta, a wilted lettuce head,

and that half-eaten tub of yogurt,

plain, indifferent, still. Enough.

But the hollow, it sits there,

behind the ribs, a cavern

where food just… doesn’t stick.

It’s a different kind of need,

this gnawing, a quiet, insistent

clench that means

I am not quite full,

not ever,

not with all this.

My stomach, a loud, rude thing,

just now, echoed the emptiness.

Even with all this.

Especially with all this.