Running on Emptiness

A melon-baller, hollows me out.  

Scraping at the walls my insides, and scooping out pieces of my soul. Bit by bit.

It leaves behind empty sphere-shaped holes.
Perfectly formed.  Each precisely the same shape and size.

Absolutely.  Gaping.  Holes.

Disassociated shadows roam through me.  

Floating and weightless, they latch on.  

Pulling me apart from me, piece by piece, long fingers of swirling grey.  

Then multiplying, separating, and sliding through each newly formed crevice.

And its cold.  And I shiver.  And I recede.