Returning

It’s not the cold that shocks you when you slide into the pond,

More of a numbness,

Empty waves that wash the strangeness from the world.

 

And you feel nothing.

You slide down –

So slowly, you don’t care.

You merely wonder as you drown.

 

One breath before, the world was real:

The wash of light upon your skin,

The hum of living made you feel that you were humming too,

And every now and then, your breath would carry

Wisps of lemon to your lungs.

 

What seemed a pond is nothing now,

Nothing at all,

Or nothing real at least to which you could hold on.

 

You don’t go down,

Just on and on and on.

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