Not the searing pain of starvation that bloats an empty belly,
Not the hunger of a holy fast, a diet or an act of self-denial,
Of day after day without the taste of anything on your tongue
Except your own saliva.
For me, I crave a different kind of hunger,
A hunger as sharp as it is delicious,
A hunger that is at once anticipation, longing and desire,
A hunger that knows my pain and understands my pleasure.
It is the hunger that I feel while waiting for my lover who is always late
To show up in his leather jacket, buttoned-down white shirt and stone-washed jeans
To pull me toward him for a kiss.
Famished, we feast on each other's bodies,
Biting and chewing every succulent morsel
Until our passion runs out and our knives and forks are put to bed.
That is the hunger that leaves me satisfied.
Dec. 8, 2015