as a child, I drank
cherryade through strawberry
lace straws,

I remember the taste
of the first sugar
rush, innocent
and reckless

now, there is the morning
after, holding hands with
hangovers on commuter
trains

and in the bottom of glasses
and mirrors, truth shines

and although my drinks are
still red, the wine

reaches my heart, faster
and sits
in the place of
a lover

and the

crash

is no longer

cushioned

by something sweet