We wake in the half-light,
deciding over coffee
whether to love,
whether to leave.
The sky doesn’t commit—
neither rain
nor shine,
just a smear of maybe.
But beneath our questions,
beneath our hearts stammering
over right and wrong,
an electron twirls.
Not maybe.
Not sometimes.
It chooses—
or is chosen.
Up.
Down.
No argument.
Perhaps
the world is gray
because we’re made of absolutes
too fine to see.
