And so you went, but left your patterns here.

The pattern of your speech dwells in my ear
Although I do not hear you speak  out loud
Shall I say ear or is it heart that bears
The form that  made  your speech have rightful sound?

Wherever in myself I find your trace
I long to keep it even when I grieve.
As though, because I do not see your face,
I never wish by sound to be deceived.

And at the end you did not speak at all
Like the baby  while inside its  little nest.
Yet with your eyes you made a final call
As contented as a baby   joined to breast.

And so you went, but left your patterns here.
So while I  write like this, I feel you near