this is not who we are – really.

I wait, craving desperately
For your emotional intimacy
While you, seemingly voluntarily
Speak to me, always so superficially.

I am never quite satisfied
Though always happy:
Exchanging a few words is a delight to me
But this is not who we are - really.

As if so much was left unsaid,
And some debilitating fear
Was forcing the present reality
To destroy any other possibility.

In my imagination, or perhaps my memory
There is a feeling of how close we could be
And my heart sinks, and never quite recovers
When the reality of our separateness shows.