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Description
you wake up one morning and you feel empty
like during the night someone broke into your skeleton and made off with your organs
like you are nothing but a hole to fill, like you are a bottle with a message inside
except you don't have a message yet and you're floating along
and you don't know where you're going and you don't know why
and you have never felt like this before and you are six years old and
you don't know what it means

and the night before you dreamt that you swallowed the sun
and you spoke in sunshine and everything glowed and
you felt like you were on fire and you loved it
and you get up and have cocoa puffs for breakfast
and wonder to yourself what the sun tastes like, and that is the first time

and the second time, you are sixteen and
you have spent a decade trying to fill the hole inside of you
and you have tried fire and people and sex, but they just burned
you have tried music and work and alcohol and
you are waking up with a hangover but even your headache feels empty
and so far all you have concluded is that nothing feels like swallowing the sun
and the sun does not taste like tequila

and you dreamt that someone hollowed out your bones and filled them with stars
you spoke in sunshine and everything glowed and
you were a bottle with a message from the sun, and you loved it
and you get up and stumble under the weight of your hangover
have cocoa puffs for lunch and decide that the sun doesn't taste like advil either
and the radio plays nothing, but static but you think you hear music anyway

and the third time, you are twenty and sleeping on someone else's couch,
and every breath you breathe reminds you of the emptiness in the space between your ribs
you dream almost nightly about swallowing the sun and light curling through your bones
and every inch of you filled with something too bright and blinding to name and
the message in the bottle of you rolling off your tongue like falling stars
and you can't remember a time when you didn't feel like this
you still don't know what it means

and you keep seeing flashes of feathers and shadows out of the corner of your eye
you have a list a mile long of things the sun does not taste like
and you have woken up on someone else's couch and
the radio is playing static but you are hearing prayer
and the sun does not taste like brad-from-your-english-class's tongue

the last time, you fell asleep to the static on the radio
whispering to you about stardust and sunshine and the taste of light
and you dreamt about swallowing the sun and growing wings
and the message in the bottle of you is 'yes', over and over and over,
a litany of 'yes', and you wake up still whispering it quietly
and you have swallowed the sun in your sleep and everything is glowing
and you are speaking in sunshine and
you are twenty-one years old and you have never felt like this before
and you know exactly what it means
and the sun tastes like knowing, tastes like promise, tastes like yes

Description
you wake up one morning and you feel empty
like during the night someone broke into your skeleton and made off with your organs
like you are nothing but a hole to fill, like you are a bottle with a message inside
except you don't have a message yet and you're floating along
and you don't know where you're going and you don't know why
and you have never felt like this before and you are six years old and
you don't know what it means

and the night before you dreamt that you swallowed the sun
and you spoke in sunshine and everything glowed and
you felt like you were on fire and you loved it
and you get up and have cocoa puffs for breakfast
and wonder to yourself what the sun tastes like, and that is the first time

and the second time, you are sixteen and
you have spent a decade trying to fill the hole inside of you
and you have tried fire and people and sex, but they just burned
you have tried music and work and alcohol and
you are waking up with a hangover but even your headache feels empty
and so far all you have concluded is that nothing feels like swallowing the sun
and the sun does not taste like tequila

and you dreamt that someone hollowed out your bones and filled them with stars
you spoke in sunshine and everything glowed and
you were a bottle with a message from the sun, and you loved it
and you get up and stumble under the weight of your hangover
have cocoa puffs for lunch and decide that the sun doesn't taste like advil either
and the radio plays nothing, but static but you think you hear music anyway

and the third time, you are twenty and sleeping on someone else's couch,
and every breath you breathe reminds you of the emptiness in the space between your ribs
you dream almost nightly about swallowing the sun and light curling through your bones
and every inch of you filled with something too bright and blinding to name and
the message in the bottle of you rolling off your tongue like falling stars
and you can't remember a time when you didn't feel like this
you still don't know what it means

and you keep seeing flashes of feathers and shadows out of the corner of your eye
you have a list a mile long of things the sun does not taste like
and you have woken up on someone else's couch and
the radio is playing static but you are hearing prayer
and the sun does not taste like brad-from-your-english-class's tongue

the last time, you fell asleep to the static on the radio
whispering to you about stardust and sunshine and the taste of light
and you dreamt about swallowing the sun and growing wings
and the message in the bottle of you is 'yes', over and over and over,
a litany of 'yes', and you wake up still whispering it quietly
and you have swallowed the sun in your sleep and everything is glowing
and you are speaking in sunshine and
you are twenty-one years old and you have never felt like this before
and you know exactly what it means
and the sun tastes like knowing, tastes like promise, tastes like yes