To the girl with the veiled smile,

immersing myself in your green eyes, all the while,

I feel as though I am on trial.

Sitting in wait,

Not on the drink, not on the people,

but in wait of the intoxication. 

I submit myself to the idea of you.

To the girl with the messy apron,

overlooked yet perfected.

Being engaged in a ballroom dance,

falling into conversation all by chance.

I submit myself to the idea of you.

To the girl who made my boba,

with the sweet milk aroma.

Whose voice melted me down to cinders,

Even during the harshest of winters.

I submit myself to you...only the glacé idea of you.