In the Hollow

Lay down the wounds like canyons, like caverns in your ocean heart. Cuts in the deep where the water runs coldest. Let the currents of salt fill every crack. Let go of the empty.

You are a world formed in rock and volcano and hurricane. You are the undersea mountains, hidden in the dark. You are the valleys in the hills at the bottom of the earth.

You are the scratches you made in the back of the wooden bookcase, the cuts you made because you liked seeing the negative space, the empty carved out with the edge of a key.

You are the paper peeled off crayons.

You are the chalk rubbed off the bark of aspens.

You are the pages falling out of the book you can’t stop reading. 

You are the loss.

You are the missing pieces.

The voices you can’t hear anymore.

The sun that doesn’t shine like it did on a bright Sunday morning when you wore a white straw hat and white buttoned gloves and the freedom of loose hair that always came uncombed and you didn’t even notice.

The plastic Easter eggs empty after the candy has been eaten.

You would think this means that you are a shell. Hollow. 

But only cups can hold water. 

Only the empty can be filled with wine.