If I Have To Ask

I won’t ask you to kiss me, or say you were wrong,
When I sing silence I’ll hope you hear my song.
I won’t ask for a hug when I’m breaking apart,
Or a hand on my shoulder to soften the heart—
When I speak from the ache that’s been quiet too long.

I won’t ask you to tell me I’m lovely tonight,
Not in flattery’s glow or in softspoken light.
I won’t ask for a poem, or lines that console,
Or a call just to hear of your afternoon’s role.
No false words of beauty can make this feel right.

I won’t beg you to stand by the choices I make,
Or to listen when stories spill out for my sake.
I won’t ask you to thank me for all that I give,
Or to worry when sorrow makes hard days to live.
I won’t ask you to give when you take and take.

I won’t ask you to give what you never knew.
Or to feel a deep sorrow when I can’t pull through.
I won’t ask for your presence when I need it most,
Or a hand on my back like a comforting ghost.
I won’t ask you to do what is not already in you.

I won’t ask you to stay, not forever, not near—
Not a whisper, a promise, a vow I should hear.
If I’ve got to request it, then love’s not the core—
If I gotta ask you, I don’t want it no more.
It’s the idea I loved, not you, I fear.

If I have to ask, it’s not you I pursue—
I’m loving a dream, not the person I knew.
You’ve already gone: you linger, a haunt—
A shadow of love I no longer want
If I have to ask—We’re already through.