Havana Syndrome
—a poem where the static hums and the citrus lies
It started as a ringing note,
A high-pitched thought behind the throat.
A golden pour, a ginger trace,
And something trembling in the base.
The lime came sharp, like whispered names
Inside old walls that played old games.
Dry curaçao—the diplomat,
Who smiles while sliding poisoned chat.
Two dashes red, Peychaud’s regret,
A bitter bloom, a nervous sweat.
He stirred it slow. The ice replied.
A silence you could not confide.
He drank. The static filled the air.
A hum that wasn’t really there.
And as the glass grew slick and dim,
The headache bloomed, composed, and grim.
📜 Havana Syndrome – The Recipe
- 1.5 oz Gold Rum
- .5 oz Dry Curaçao
- .5 oz Fresh Lime Juice
- .25 oz Ginger Syrup
- 2 dashes Peychaud’s Bitters
- Garnish: None—just lean in and listen
Instructions:
Shake with paranoia and ice.
Strain over a large cube in a lowball glass.
Do not garnish. Let the ringing speak for itself.
Best consumed while staring at embassy walls, wearing headphones that pick up nothing but ghosts.