Heaven

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.