A Beatiful Regret

I could tell by her movement she’d been drinking

not drunk, just enough to make a sane man look away.

But want was louder than my sense.

With every step closer, the smell of cigarettes and french perfume grew stronger.

I should’ve run, but the moment was stolen. I knew every touch would later bleed.

She was trouble, yet there was a twinkle in her eye — or maybe it was the tight jeans, the dark, straight hair.

Now she screams inside my peace, a beautiful regret!