GUT WHISPER

 

Gut Whisper

That quiet nudge,

the one we shove aside,

hiss into silence,

refuse to hear—

it’s the truest thing we’ve got.

A knowing that doesn’t explain itself,

a flicker in the dark,

thin as a thread,

yet sharp enough to cut through reason.

Your gaze,

a spark leaping the gap,

lit something wild—

too fierce to cage in logic,

too alive to weigh with thought.

That first press of your mouth

wiped my slate clean,

erased every map I’d drawn,

every rule I’d memorized.

Months blurred into a rush,

me diving headlong,

climbing through the frame

of your red, half-wild machine—

not a sports car, but close enough

to feel like freedom.

Never once did I ask

where the road was bending,

just leaned into the wind,

trusting the ride.

I shut out the warnings,

the flicker of doubt,

the signs flashing slow down—

this was a coaster’s plunge,

a thrill I’d chase forever.

The stars blazed above,

sharp in the thick,

sweaty air of a summer night,

so vivid they swore

they’d never fade.

But we were the ones

who flared too fast,

a fire that ate itself alive—

damp sparks,

no fuel left to burn.

We lit up,

then sputtered out,

leaving nothing

but ash and a hum

in the empty dark.