The city’s breath against the window;
our booth is the curve of a palm,
a secret whisper.
He fishes in his bubble tea
with the end of a straw—
air pressure and a finger tip
make a magic trick.
Under heavenly hum of fluorescent choir,
the teasing Cupidon raises chin and tapioca
and for a moment of innocent machismo,
he is the boy with the world on his tongue.