stabbing heartache

I hate that it matters to me, every day, whether you look at me or greet me.  I hate that I hold my breath for you to give me a nod, or a wink, or to walk by and hold my hand a second too long.  I hate that you know how much it matters to me.

 

I never realized how much you watched me, or how well you read me.  I wish that I didn't need you so much.  I wish I didn't know the way you look directly into my eyes and see everything.  I wish I didn't know how it felt to be the focus of your eyes and your questions.  I was surprised to find out how much you knew about me just by watching, since I had never revealed it, verbally or otherwise.  I wish I didn't see it in your eyes, how much I amuse you.  I wish I didn't know how well you could tell what I was thinking or feeling, more than anyone else has ever been able to.  I wish I didn't know that you feel about me the same way I feel about you.  I wish you didn't challenge me and excite me and make me laugh and laugh at me when I'm being funny or just unintentionally absurd.  I wish I didn't know how deeply you care for me.  I wish you hadn't been able to look at me and tell me, right at the moment that I thought I was staying strong and trying to be indifferent and standing firm, that I was fragile.  And you were right.

 

I wish that this connection was something I'd had with someone, anyone else.  I wish this didn't make me more lonely.  I wish I hadn't allowed myself that one hard, sobbing, lengthy cry.

 

More than all that, I wish you weren't with someone else.