doesn’t stay inside its lines.
It bleeds,
it spills,
it argues with itself.
But an electron
keeps its secret discipline,
spinning only
up
or down,
never pausing in the middle,
never shrugging
as we do,
when we say maybe.
I envy that certainty,
and fear it too.
Because I live here,
in the spill,
where nothing
ever holds
just one direction.
