I was meant to love you.

She was intoxicated the first time she kissed me, it was needy, desperate and hasty- it
felt illicit, like if I knew in the farthest depths of my mind that I was getting myself into
something dangerous. I don’t why I stopped, I could have taken her right then and there, but I
just couldn’t.

I should have regretted it.

--

And I did lament it later on because (excuse my French) she was fucking beautiful, it
wasn’t the kind of women you saw on magazines or on these cliché perfume adds with too
much editing that society pasted on the side of a bus, she was graceful, delicate and freaking
god like.

We spent more time than necessary together but not enough for it to be mistaken as an
affair of the heart. Eventually though, we did share a bed, and by that I mean sweet, dirty and
amazing sex. Afterwards I took the liberty of touching her whenever I craved, I took her hand,
ran my fingers down her spine and kissed her soft skin every time it seemed fit.

--

It wasn’t that I loved her, but hell I was going to miss her. The only thing I could think
about was how I was going to long her glancing at me with those icy eyes and how her mouth
curled up into a smile every time I managed to make an idiot out of myself. Or her touch. Or
her scent. Or absolutely everything about her.

I should stop while I’m ahead.