But I Guess This is Heaven

Spikes of hot air rush from between your lips; your breath rushes to warm the freezing air and in its attempt is no longer translucent, but a color you can see. What was that color, really? It wasn't necessarily a color, but more of a memory of the gaseous air (which was now solid as you exhale one more time).

He'd promised differently; all you could see was the color white surrounding everything around your eyes. It was almost too bright and you momentarily had to close your eyes to feel remotely better. The pure white brightness of the air surrounding you was nauseating. And it was cold. So cold.

You can taste your tongue against the roof of your mouth. It was odd; there were no tastes to the air, only the taste of your own saliva. How tempting.

Oh, how forgetful you always knew you were! While thinking, you find yourself often forgetting about everything except for your own steady breathing in this place that was so silent it was loud. You had forgotten about the silly substance beneath your fingers; you gently tickle the flower with a gentle remembrance. Seemingly, it grows taller beneath your fingers, as if telling you something, though you barely knew what.
This was nice, you supposed. The white, pure air and silkiness of the flower . . . But, God had promised (or so you thought) a beautiful place with warmth. Yet, there was only cold and white. And singing. You could hear singing and how beautiful it was! A soft melody pulling at your ears, telling you to fall asleep in the field of flowers that's beneath your feet.

It was so cold . . . So cold. Yet, I didn't want to freeze to death, but I guess this is Heaven.