Heaven

Poem about some feelings

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.