To the one who's in the story

I regret not telling people
What i exactly felt in my stomach dance
The very moment they touched
My soul for the first time
'Poetry' is the language i used to speak then
Yet chose not to write my whole heart out
Was i stuck with the traffic of thoughts?
Or didn't know with what time would rhyme?
Now i want people to people to get it
Without me spilling the beans all over
I want them to sit me down to tell me
The stories of them making the same mistake
So that i stop smelling my words
When it comes out me, again and again.
Cause every time i sniff and reach my sense,
It smells of old rotten regret.