Mornings

She says she likes my golden locks,
She trails her fingers in between them.

She doesn't say but she feels;
And she doesn't the same way as I do.

I blame the late hour, the alcohol;
But I know she was my intoxication all along.

Yet I am still here, I'll keep waiting
For a change that won't happen.

This hope won't die out
As long as my heart beats.