I find I crave not the sustenance that feeds mind nor flesh.

  The cheese-laced pasta holds no sway over me.

  Its warmth, its scent, lost on a soul adrift.

  The hunger lies not within the belly,

  But in a mind that longs to feast on tales—

  To consume word after word, page after page,

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Devouring stories like flame consumes parchment.

  Even as nourishment lingers within reach,

  I turn my gaze, unflinching, from its call.

  For tonight, it is not dinner I seek.

  But the ache of imagined lives,

  The echo of distant lands whispered through ink.

  Tonight, I think, dinner shall delay its call.

  The story is calling louder.