From the Book of Things Best Left Unbottled

First, take the silver — not worn, but stolen from the edge of a smile.
Melt it in candlelight until the shadows lean in.
Cool with frozen vodka, sharpen with the zest of a lime cut under a waxing moon,
then warm it in your palm until a thread of smoke rises to greet the dark.

Second, add a measure of mischief: a laugh that sinks into a whisper,
a peach moonstone for luck, fingers crossed not to ward off danger
but to invite it closer.
Stir in strawberries — obscene in their ripeness — and a rim of salt
to remind you where the sea ends.
Speak his name once into the glass before you look away.

Last, pour the heart of the thing:
the oil of bitter orange, the musk of old woods, the taste of a kiss that never landed.
Let the glass rest in your hand until you feel its weight shift,
its promise growing restless.
One sip will undo you; none will undo you more.

Leave it untouched until dawn.
If the spell is true, the glass will be empty by then,
though your lips will swear they never tasted it.