She spots trouble
    like radar spots storms—
    eyes lit,
    pulse ready,

    thrilled by the whisper of chaos.

Warnings roll in,
    notifications blinking:

    “Conditions unstable.”
    “Approach with caution.”
    “High intensity expected.”

    She doesn’t heed them.

Instead, she sends photos—
          darkening skies,
          electric smiles,
      plans hastily drawn,
                    messy,
        beautiful spirals,
       like tornado paths…

      threatening touchdown somewhere near me.

Somewhere,
    she's already circling.

Somewhere,
    I'm already leaning toward the door.

But—
    I'm anchored, (for now)
    routines, dog, dentist, deadlines,
    but she whispers dangerously,
    pushing me to step outside,
    to chase lightning,
    risk thunder,

    embrace the sweet madness of her storm.

Every encounter is a whirlwind—
                     consuming,
                    breathless,
                    relentless—

    hours spent tumbling in wild gusts,
    moments spinning on the edge of control.

We almost book flights,
    storm-bound and reckless…
    almost surrender to impulse,
    almost let the sky crack open,

    almost turn fantasy into forecasted reality.

Maybe next time, we will—
         risk everything,
      catch the tailwind,

    and chase the storm straight into each other.