I am without. I am weak and weary. I wither away in the seconds, minutes and hours that pass, all wishing, no, yearning for a but a morsel to fulfill me. I miss the calm and comfort of being full. I miss the warmth that soothed me and the sensation of being whole. I remember the energy I had; the vitality it brought me. I knew it was what sustained me, yet could not imagine how tragic it’s loss would be. This nagging sense of lacking clouds my mind. It’s churns into near obsession over regaining that which I have lost. Should I steal it? Could I trick my way into getting even a superficial taste? What if I bartered or begged? Though I’m inclined to act with dignity and moral fortitude, this malnourishment brings out the darkness in me. It calls on desperation and jealousy. I see those who are satiated arrogantly flaunting it and I wish ill upon them. I glare at them in envy. But with time, my rage subsides and wilts to sadness. I am filled with deep remorse by my physical and mental emptiness. It envelopes me completely in a chilling fog of dismay. For losing my love has left me malnourished.