no, she doesn't regret a thing.

I like sweet things, pastels colors, cotton candies and long drunk dreams
I like aching while I wait and goodbyes because that's what I'm made of.
I like reruns when the ticket's price's too high, you know I'd never bet low.
I like myself a few of them and a lot. I like things and then I hate them but I,
well, I know I'll like them even more.

I don't like promises when they sound like mere rotten chains and vain
while they jump out of your sore lips in a heartbeat and so thoughtlessly
only to remain ringing in my ears, crawling through a poor and itching me.
I don't like long cold goodbyes when it's your hand waving me away but,
well, I don't like the sound of your steps.

I want Almodóvar writing my script, Piaf singing it away in pure joy and tears
I want the best actors to recite my lines but I'll keep the lies all mine, only mine
I want French love affairs and never ending trips to the sky and to trip on you
And on him and on all of them and I want to feed my hunger in your arms but,
well, I want more than they're willing to fake.

I don't want to learn from mistakes, I'd only cherish them like mother like son
I don't want to stop to take a breath and admire the sight, life's way too short
And I don't want to come back here ever again, it's only once and with feelings
I don't want to reach to you and I don't want to let you go but you, filthy whore...


I'm getting sick of your cheap burns and it's getting late, I can't miss the next.
There'll be thousand others and pictures to remind them all and kisses and all
there'll be better touches, plenty of fucks, worse lips but there'll be none, dear
there'll be none who'll take your place.

It was good while it lasted the first time. Good and painful.
And it's being great now that it's ending for the second time.
But life is too short and I'm afraid there'll be no next round.