Love story

What d’ya expect me to do with it now?
You kinda fell in my lap.
If you ask me,
You’re not a priority.
A dance partner, a chance wife, a silent mistress,
A snail getting lost in the grass.
Collapsing and opening up, the human snail.
I touch it time and again
With my bare hand.
I pretend
That I have no aversion to slime
When alone, you must’ve  looked in the mirror
At yourself and appreciated architectural design.
You whimper and sigh.
I’ll remain the silent one.
Lost in silence. –“Where d’ya think
You’re going with that?”
You don’t take “yes” for an answer.
By now, you’ve learned to distrust my silences.
It must be proactively smart of you.
The slime spills on the floor, disintegrates
Like a broken string of pearls,
Perfect in its artificial roundness:
It doesn’t make the screeching,
Sandy sound when one rubs it.
Unlike with the genuine pearly stuff.
We quickly dress, get out
And order a salad.
It tastes bland.
Our usual waiter grates
Some Parmesan to make it salient.
Thanks, no dressing.