It's been a long time since I've seen you smile.
You used to smile at me all the time: secret grins at crime scenes, half smiles that held more love than the words of a thousand sappy poems, a full-toothed beam when I surprised you. I don't see those anymore.
You used to kiss me all the time, as if with each you couldn't believe you were really allowed to. If I was in reach, your lips would find a way to my nose, forehead, hands, cheeks, or lips. You don't do that anymore.
You used to touch me all the time. You'd hold my hand or have yours on my back as we walked. A brush of fingers through my hair as we sat and watched mindless telly that you said was 'fun'. I never thought so, but you liked it. So I watched it for you.
You used to speak to me all the time. 'Good morning' or 'Good night' or 'Not in the fridge!' No matter how you felt, you said something. Now you don't say anything at all. Just 'I'm tired. Not tonight.'
I'm not going to leave; I can't live without you. Not anymore. You made me feel, and I can't go back. I'll wait here in the silent loneliness with the hope that things will get better. I know they won't, is the thing. I can lie to anyone but myself. It'll be over, this. Us. In a year, if I'm right. But I'll stay, because you're still my life, even if I'm no longer yours.
Shut up, London. Don't raise your voices. There is no need to shout. This is just another night to mourn to.
You used to hunger for my touch. You'd be willing, no matter when or where I propositioned you. Now you turn away from me, saying, "You always just think of one thing. Let me go." I'm left with no choice but to step away and retreat to the couch, thinking of you. As always. You think I don't see the looks you give me, the disgust on your face.
I'm not going to leave.
You used to speak.
You used to touch.
You used to kiss.
You used to smile.
It's been so long since I've seen you smile.