Is this whoop that lifts the night
or just the echo of our neon hearts?
Silver bass drips down my spine,
your laugh slices through the smoke like darts.
We spin on a pixelated edge,
gravity forgets our names—
every drop is a question mark,
every rise a burst of flames.
If tomorrow cracks the mirror,
let these shards keep us awake;
I’d trade all my borrowed hours
for one more whoop we’ll never fake.