She hiccupped in the middle of a sentence—
like a comma her body forgot to hide.
A tiny sound, a flutter, a skip—
and suddenly, the world tilted on its side.
She covered her mouth,
cheeks painted rose,
as if embarrassed that her heart
was speaking in Morse code.
'"I swear it only happens when I’m nervous,"'
she said, eyes darting like fireflies in June.
But he just smiled—
like it was his favorite song out of tune.
Another hiccup.
Then two.
Then three.
Like kisses falling out accidentally.
She groaned. He laughed. She turned away.
He said, “You hic like a poem trying to stay.”
He offered water, she shook her head.
He whispered, “Maybe you need love instead?”
She rolled her eyes but let it slide,
as hiccups danced and time complied.
And in that pause between her little startles,
he found stars tucked behind her dimples—
how her hiccups made her human, soft,
a little wild, a little lost.
He wanted to bottle that sound,
like a keepsake of her clumsy grace—
the way even her stutters
found rhythm on her face.
They say love speaks in circles—
roses, rain, or setting suns.
But his came in half-held giggles,
in hiccups that never quite let her run.
So the next time she hic, and cursed the air,
he leaned in close, tucked a strand of her hair—
and whispered with a smile too wide to ignore,
“Every hiccup just makes me love you more.”
Erennwrites