What would your guts say?

The thought of it swept through my brain in a quick motion. Like turning a fresh page in a spine-bound book. Or like a drapey little cartoon ghost chasing the protagonist through the kitchen.

It wasn’t one ear and out the other. Instead, it was more like the thought of it floated in my mind for a few seconds… right before it billowed out my ear. Like cigarette smoke being slowly exhaled.

I couldn’t remember what I was thinking about. I couldn’t remember what I wanted to say. My brow furrowed in self-induced frustration.

It was like it was on the tip of my tongue. I keep thinking about the tip of my tongue, I remarked to myself.

The tip of my tongue is where something I forgot but will soon remember again lives. It’s where words linger, are left unsaid, or are cut short in real-time regret. It’s where a feeling inside of you fizzles out before it could make its way outside of your body. It’s where you hesitated out of fear. It’s what you wanted to say, but didn’t. Or couldn’t.

It’s a fleeting moment. It’s simply a taste and not the whole thing.

And at the same time, it’s where the flavour of something memorable sits. It’s the first and last savour of a delicious, peppery, sauce. It’s the floral note in a comforting cup of tea. It’s where words begin, ponder, or start line up next to one another like a book organization system. It’s like the waiting room before the singer goes out to perform on stage. It’s like the first step.

Today, it’s where you take that deep breath. The one before you spill your guts out.