It could be her locks.
Wavy, blond, and falling.
Or her birkenstocks.
With cat eye glasses,
I embrace those locks.

It was not this that burnt
the only desires
I had to be with
her, till dying day.
I would not care

If I never had my way.
It took one conversation,
About types, from second hand
To tell me not just

That I would never have her hand,
But nobody else.
She had her chance,
As I could have had mine.

But now I give in,
And find synthetic dolls
So divine.