Call this purgatory
But it's not quite.

It's a balance between
Heaven
And
Hell.

Heaven from these waking and sleeping moments
Blanketed in your warmth
In your books and hair
And skin.
Showered with love
Cleaned by it
And showing true selves.
No puppetry.

And Hell
For all the same reasons gone.
No infinities
No blankets of lasting warmth.
All safety being yanked from me upon sunrise,
The ouroboros dwindling
And anxiety of next day.
To lose your libraries, your sheets, your smell and touch
In one instant.

Heaven AND Hell.
Forever sewing themselves into these moments.
Sine and Cosine.
The snake of comfort.