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Martini shaker as a rattle and keys at the hip—
Drawing his drugged and sorry prey to him.
Girls, wounded and stumbling, in their stacked shoes
and constricted clothes: their skins being shed throughout
The drenched night, regretted.
His walk that was more like a slither,
like love between the legs.
He was never only mine. He shared himself, gladly.
Turned himself into nothing
but a sordid story in the mornings, always regretted.
He's a boy who wants only to be the object.
But he still glides along that bar floor,
Beware: he is as beautiful as he is dangerous.
But this is a sonnet, regretted.