Hollow Bones

That one time that I looked at you, you said "My, your pupils grow so big!"
 That's because they're making room to fit all of you in
 Now your taste is painted on the inside of my eyelids and
 I can't close my eyes, I can't go to sleep
 I can't chew and swallow without remembering
 digesting you that Alabama morning
 I was hours behind, so you said you would describe
 just how the sun would set, so I'd know what to expect
 You say things I never thought I'd ever want to hear,
 now your words are playing over and over in my ears,
 as I watch these mile markers disappear
 What if the sun shot an arrow and it speared you in the gut?
 Could I take your intestines and make them into strings,
 and stretch them over your hollow bones?
 If I plucked, if I strummed, would you make a sound?
 We barely slept the night we met, twelve hours to get to know before I had to hit the road
 Since then just some thoughts of skin but I can feel my teeth sink in
 I bite down, I rip, I tear,
 I chew you up but swallow air
 I could have sworn that you were there
 My breath passes through my throat and out across my teeth
 My tongue makes shapes and words come out
 but they're not what I mean
 Two thousand three hundred forty eight miles between,
 one week, two weeks, three, this trail of crumbs will come to an end
 and my stomach will start grumbling again
 Every hour I'm seventy miles further away from believing its real
 but my calloused finger tips remember your corduroy
 Right now I can't feel your skin but I can feel your grip
 You said you'd like to eat me up but not if I get you first
 And then the sun shot an arrow and it speared you in the gut
 I took your intestines and made them into strings
 and stretched them over your hollow bones
 and I plucked and I strummed, but you made no sound
 and I plucked and I strummed, but you made no sound