You Sans Promises

...
I spotted Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov lying on the floor covered by the messy pile of clothes we left behind. You loved to hear me saying 'Really?' and begged me to repeat it endlessly, but each time I gave you my infamous look of menace in return, which still caused your lips to curl up in a smirk. I traced the tattooes marking your skin and whispered to myself ''ah yes, you are an artist afterall...''. It made you laugh and meet your lips with my jawline, and then again. You asked if I would want to see you some other time and I responded with kisses. You did not seem to mind my methods of distraction and I did not manage to say a word. I did not tell you that I liked how you played the songs you wrote, and you did not need my approval. I laughed when you said the greatest band was The Smiths, but you did not have the time to find out why. We exchanged numbers and instantly regretted it. And as you were dozily tying the laces of your black converses you could not conceal your surprise that Catch 22 was one of my favourite books. And I could not, but not smile at the jittery electricity coming through my body when you said you read Salinger and Bukowski. I wondered what was your reason for waking up every morning, just because this is always what I ask random blue-eyed guitarists. You replied with your music and for a second I felt slightly envious.
''Will I see you again?'' you brought the question once more with this dreamy expression of yours, but we both knew what the answer would be.
...Because some things were meant to remain ephemeral, but we were too high on oxytocin to accept that back then.