coming up …

surfacing,
washed ashore,

gasping,
wracked in bronchospasm,

swallowing every breath,
hungrily, manically,

feeling my eyes clear,
sounds and smells filtering back,

edgily,
languidly,

between lungfulls of air,

and an emptiness left behind,

torn between spaces,
illegally alien,

to oneself,

the most desolate place,
sometimes,

lies beneath the veneer,

of the ever smiling, happy face

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