Observing Atoms

Writing from sadness is easy. It’s catharsis, a leavening of self.

Writing from joy is far more complicated. The writer is not seeking alleviation and so the act of writing it, in all its transient splendor, becomes ominous.

Do I dare speak of the way her body nestles neatly as she sneaks under my covers, her flesh born from inside mine — or of my soul’s wholeness upon her existence?

The moments swell in my chest, tidal waves

of emotion so large they may carry me

for decades down the shore, or drown me

slowly, as I cling to the white wash.