Sometimes I feel empty--
As if someone uncapped me in the night and everything that had flavor ran out, spilling to the floor.
I'm not depressed or exhausted or stressed or anymore broken than I am on a full day. I'm just empty, without anything to bubble to the top, without anything to overflow and frolic. Without.
Without within myself.
But I don't say anything. I don't try to explain the nothing that's inside of me. Because it's nothing. And when I say there's nothing wrong, I couldn't be more accurate. But still, I'm empty, and that's not really right, either.
Explaining it would only make the void more devoid. Others would try to stuff it full of words and help and things that aren't made to go there.
And I know I'm like a beach in the starlight, the tide going out and out and out. And, as on the beach, it won't always be night, and time will fill me up again.
Time will bring the tide back in.
In the waiting, the moon still shines and waxes and wanes. In the waiting, the sea still churns and yearns and crashes and sings. In the waiting, the sand still gleams.
In the waiting, I'm still me.
In the empty, I'm a human sea.