Of course, you were not looking for something serious...
Pursed lips and the taste of coffee on your tongue, a broken toothpick between your lips as you told me about your dreams and ambitions at 2 a.m., with pancakes on the stove and the city lights burning bright behind the window.
Your head rested on the flesh of my thighs, a hand in my hair as you admired the forest brown color of my eyes, how my curls rolled around your finger as you opened your heart that you had never met anyone as beautiful, that you had never seen a smile as pure.
The sound of your laughter bounced off the walls as I tried to grasp what was left of that morning. Too good to be true, it seemed, that I only wanted it to linger a moment longer. Listening to the timbre in your voice as you imagined a life full of love. I closed my eyes, following the melody of your voice like music, your musings straight from the heart.
3 a.m., waiting for sunrise with burnt pancakes and toast half eaten, we spent all the time on the kitchen floor, talking. We forgot about the stranger called time as he passed by. You looked into my eyes and whispered, “I’m not looking for anything serious.”
Serious as a verb—an action not to keep your hands tied, or serious as a noun—a boundary not to expect anything out of this love we can barely understand.
Serious as a door, in case you choose to walk away.
Serious as a way to keep me from expecting, to stop me from getting my heart broken, you clarify.
But you lure me in either way, with words as sweet as the last smile of sunset and a voice as rhythmic as my heartbeat. You open your soul and pour out all the things you’ve never had the chance to say—from past lovers to friends, to family, to death, to life, to love, to coffee... to us.
4 a.m., with time now running by like your first love ran into the shed to hide from the rain. You walked to her, alone, to ask about your differences—that she always hid from the things she claimed to love, which, in the end, was the demise of your love.
With hands growing cold, you pulled me close and kissed the top of my head as I shared things I’d never told anyone before. How I crumble when I fall in love, how I believe I can’t be loved. You assured me how wrong I was to think that. You almost seemed certain—almost—that I could be loved, that anyone could.
Just not by you.
5 a.m., morning crawled in and the birds outside sang of a new day. The intimacy of the night faded away, reality walking in. You reminded me, "I’m not looking for something serious," and I nodded, my heart heavy, just accepting that maybe—just maybe—I should have listened.
You kiss me one last time, and as I close the door shut, I know I will never see you again.
We were never looking for anything serious, after all.
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