Story #17

Not like this.

Not while I stand here lamely facing you.
Not with me clutching cheap flowers in my clammy hand whilst ice-cream dribbles down the outside of my cone. 
Not while children run around us oblivious, screaming and shouting. 
Not as I desperately search my brain for anything, anything that I can say to make this better. 
Not with my phone clutched in your hand so tight that your knuckles go pale. 
Not with your voice raised in a crowd, me cowardly shrinking.
Not with me only thinking how I can make this stop, how we can get away from this crowd. 
Not on this weekend. This weekend which was meant to make it all better. This weekend which was meant to be perfect. 
Not with you crying, with people looking. 
Not with the message from her hanging lamely on my screen. Frozen.
Not with the tarnished plans, the excitement destroyed. The disappointment.
Not with me thinking of how I am going to get home.
Not with the hanging silence.
Not with the blank mind.
No, please, not like this. 
Not like this.

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