Starts low.
Beneath ribs.
Hum.
Warmth spreading…
honey in veins,
gold at vision’s edge.
Seconds stretch.
Skin sings…
high, crystalline,
where air meets flesh.
Room tastes copper.
Cinnamon sharp
on tongue.
Blue hums.
Red drums.
Yellow rings
in chest center.
It gathers.
Heat rising.
Pulse quick.
Body opening…
color blooming
in stretched seconds.
Hum becomes chord.
Touch tastes wine.
Sound feels silk
on naked shoulders.
Light has weight,
warm against eyelids.
Heart hammering.
Breath catching.
Blood thick.
Every nerve…
electric, golden, alive.
This second
infinite,
already gone,
happening forever.
Body arching.
Fingers clutching.
Mouth open.
pulse...
this...
this...
bright...
flare...
White behind eyes.
Gold sounding.
Thunder tasting.
Body dissolving
into pure sensation…
no boundaries…
just ecstatic
obliteration…
yes.
Colors separating.
Sounds becoming sound.
Body returning.
Breath remembering.
Skin cooling.
Pulse slowing.
Hum fading.
Room
just room.
But those seconds…
you were not separate
from joy.
You
were
joy.
- UpsilonA
Afterword:
Something that’s intrigued me for a long time, I’ve been circling a particular problem in language: whether a poem can enact joy rather than describe it—whether words can momentarily place the reader inside a state of arrival, instead of pointing toward one from the outside. One of my influences pursued this concept. They are long gone; the pursuit remains unfinished.
This poem is not a conclusion but a working pass. It is an experiment in attention, embodiment, and duration—tracking sensation before interpretation, intensity before identity. Each version teaches me something about where language holds and where it fails. This is the latest attempt.