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Some Meals I Share

Warm crunchy Chicken Joy fills my stomach, when I feel hollowness in my chest. My stomach and chest are acting like two hungry souls I have to feed, in some meals they aren’t. 

I walked around the streets of my hometown searching for food that’s calling out to me. All I can think of is the absence. Two of my friends went home, one is fast asleep in her apartment. I had to go out, I wanted some warm food not made by my hands. What meal must I have?

As I morphed down the crunchy Chicken Joy, I had to think if I’m really where I need to be. The weather wasn’t helping, the white cloud cover, and it wasn’t warm nor cold. Unsettling were the passing eyes; they stared momentarily. I had to watch something on my phone to look less alone. Did their thoughts matter? I think I felt less alone with Terrace House, the Hawaii season. 

I thought of the meals I had with them, my friends. The orders wouldn’t stop, it seemed like we were insatiable. Though I always had a grin, as I chewed, and tasted, the food. My stomach and chest were just one. There wasn’t a hollowness, no bridge to connect anything. With them, the meals made me invigorated. 

 I talk about those meals with other people, someone said we spent so much. But honestly, it never felt like it. The money didn’t matter. For those meals I shared, I felt full. 

I spent as much then, with the meal I’m having now. It’s such an alien thought to feel full. Had they been there, at least one of them, I would’ve been full. 

Before I left her apartment, I cut up fruit I also bought for her. For that meal I shared, I hope she felt full.