Never do I dream 
of drinking tea. 
The flavor would never 
    be important 
to me, nor the color 
    of the hot cup of tea. 
Some, they dream 
    of vin blanc. 
Or coffee and rum 
    (hot or on ice). 
I do not dare, dare 
    believe that a liquid 
    can make the atmosphere 
    of kissing. 
Or touching 
in various other ways. 
The thin steam would never 
    drive my imagination. 
And in this, 
    I am surely at fault; 
    a drink of sorts 
    slipping down my throat, 
    filling my lungs with aroma, 
    tainting my breath 
    an earthy flavor. 
Oh, God what do I miss? 
What bliss of romance am 
    I forfeiting, what 
    low budget aphrodisiac 
    do I let slide through the 
    fingers of my wiley mind? 
    What love am I losing?