The Maraschino and I

Sometimes I’ll leave it there for days, scared to touch it, for if I do I know how I’ll be tempted – no, demanded by the crystal to stuff it full of ice lace its skin with sweetness, and douse with golden poison… straining into its smaller cousin – decadent, and invitingly chilled – a single, large cube begs to crack, as I have, under the spill of viscous concoction.

I raise my glass to the maraschino and I, drowning in our sorrows.