This Heaven has this heaviness,
I feel it deep inside, an emptiness
where the edges of this white abyss
extend into the distance infinitely,
blurring with the sky like a scar.
I keep thinking it’s over,
that I’ve climbed the stairs,
but it’s there, behind me,
so I turn around,
but it follows my back, as if attached
by a stiff pole, and it’s digging into my skin;
It is an itch in the center of my back.
It is the sound vibrating the air,
but it stays silent.
It attacks me, but I cannot fight it.
It is there, and it is not.
It is a warmth that is both too cold and too hot.
It is the edges of this Heaven:
infinitely far, or everywhere.
This heaviness weighs this Heaven down
like it wants to drag it back to Hell like
continental drift: Pangea will reform
on the other side of the planet, inside out,
as will Heaven reform as Hell and bring me with it.
I live here now.
In Heaven, lower
than where it should be,
but not yet at Hell.
It is only a matter of time;
time that is keeping me away, waiting;
time that has an infinite inertia—never slowing;
time that is continually dropping me closer,
centimeter by centimeter.