un-wonderful

Hardly a day goes by
that you don't look at me
like that
and I don't cry. 
I'm not staring at your back, while you
don't glare at me
like that
and we don't exchange those words,
and I don't threaten,
don't try
to end it all. 
They think I'm melodramatic. 
I know I am. 
But I don't want this--
not here
not now
not with you. 
What I want is a careless not-stroll,
you're hand isn't holding mine,
as I don't smile-shhhh-
and you don't laugh. 
The wind isn't whipping around the edge of my skirt
and you're not beginning to shiver.
You don't take off your jacket as you look at me
not lovingly and the fabric isn't warm against my shoulders.   
This not love is more un-wonderful than I've never dreamed it to be. 
I never wanted it to be.  Never.  
And as we don't walk into the theatre I am unhappy.
More unhappy than I've never dreamed of, so much so
that the corners of my lips aren't curling upwards
as my heart doesn't palpitate. 
I don't stare deeply into your eyes,
don't try to get at your soul
or lack there of. 
And as you hesitate for that look of no fear
or desire on my face, I want to say

Please don't stroke my finger tips,
please don't kiss my lips,
I don't want to feel that softness that assurance.
The streetlights go on
and we don't exchange those words,
and I don't threaten,
don't try
to end it all.