Does this piece have enough feeling?

It’s awful, how that silence stings, when I need so much — need, require, long, yearn, desire — and you don’t, and I shouldn’t. Some silences are sharp, some sweet, and this one is sour and stomach-churning, because it is sudden, and ceaseless, it seems. Did I go wrong? It must be so, because you don’t want my presence, my voice, my words, they’ve grown stale and sticky between your lips, like this foolish florid prose, like this stupid sibilant paragraph.