make things worse.
Your little quirks?
Your wee endearing ways?
What makes you all that?
Stuff it, mount it, hang it
on the wall, sell tickets,
I won't come. Get back. Get lost.
Get real. Get a life. Keep shtum.
And just, you must, remember this --
there'll be no kiss, no clinch,
no smoochy dance,
no true romance.
You are Anonymous. You're who?
Here's not looking, kid, at you.
The method, in the speaker’s view, to push away pain is to deny the identity of the lover. If this person is Anonymous they can’t be loved.
To The Unknown Lover