Something is missing.
At least that is what
the palate says. Though
so much is here. Nudge
of onion. Wink of cumin.
The lentil’s warm shrug.
It is like, perhaps,
a person who, feeling
a certain emptiness
longs to fill it with
a voice. Though all
around him, voices,
not hers.
The soup is warm,
but not there the spark,
the sharp song, the crystalline chime.
It is easy to taste
mostly absence. We are
hard wired to want it,
to crave it, adore it.
We’ve evolved
alongside of our need.
No one wants to hear
they can’t have what
they want. We cannot
untaste what we’ve tasted.
They say we are mostly
made of emptiness.
Sometimes I understand.