The Hunger

There she sat , across the table
Having her lasagna bolognaise.
Fork and knife in either hand, eyes on her plate
She was famished.
I too was
But my hunger was different.
My food didn’t satisfy
For my eyes were a bottomless belly
And she was the snack
I savoured her presence
Her nose perfect on her face
Her smile that raised her face value
Her hair hiding her ears
Her eyes that sometimes caught mine
Those black-brown beans floating on the white of her soul’s windows
Her neck that held her head high.
Her fingers like the road to heaven
Straight and narrow
Paved with the silverware she grasped
Her food, well done, must have rejoiced to enter the glory of her mouth
A perfection allayed all mental ascerbities
Would it that she were on the plate set before my sixth sense
For the sight, smell, taste, sound, and the touch of her
Even in copious amounts
Would not stay my hunger for her.