Today, you wore your Sunday's best,
But I just didn't tell you
That I adore the way you dressed;
And now I feel regretful.
I wish I wouldn't hesitate,
But you are so breathtaking
That all the words I think of fade
And set my silence waking.
Sometimes I wish I could say more,
(On time, right in the moment),
To be more poised than before,
To be a better girlfriend.
This quiet hopelessness of thoughts
Is ice for my mind's fire;
My tongue is tied up into knots,
My chagrin sharp as briar.
Oh, I regret not only that,
But feel not often hollow:
For when my hand is in your hand,
I don't acknowledge sorrow.
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