It is as old as the atomic dance that makes molecules,
this feeling: the hollowness that lies between two ribs,
pushes crocuses, forcibly, from frozen ground,
catches atoms in taught bonds.

Do we demonize it,
it us,
or just
that human tendency
to attribute significance and causation
rather than reconcile ourselves
to inexplicability?

We explain the sensation as a void,
call it longing
generated by the electrical impulses of tightly wrought muscle mass
though in truth
its origins are chemical,
concocted by the pharmacy upstairs,
that manufactures loneliness, hopelessness, a dopamine dawn
all your fears (dreams)
a drop at a time.

If it had a shape,
it would be like the hollow at the base of your throat,
a slight depression
like where eddies erode a waterfall, leaving pockmarks
the size and shape of human fists;
only violence can explain the constant beating.