Four years ago I met you,
those golden locks
like a fleece to be worn
by those who earn your love,
yet I never made a grab at
such wonder when
you had exposed that soft,
pink underbelly, the morning after,
as we smoked hand rolled fags
on the porch of your luxurious beach
home, I could have had it all.
Regret is bitter, that is why
you will always be my sour girl.
