The Space That Hungers

What's this space that lives between our silence? A hungry void waiting for a whimper. Tomorrow's empty belly yearning for a feast. One that may never come — uncertainty never settles comfortably anyway. What's this pause that lives before the exhale? Suffocated lungs, a racing heart, the moment before release, a buildup so sweet it swells and sways, seismic, orgasmic. How much pain should passion cause? Bruises baked into knees from longing, the lower back from thirsting, the neck from hedonistic hunger. What is the silence that lives between pleasure and pain? How many muted decibels? How many moans echoing, clawing at the lead-stained walls?