I heard your voice outside the glass front door
I felt no shock nor worry nor surprise.
But there a man, whose image is a blur,
Handed me a box with friendly cry.
What part of me still waits for your return?
Why don’t I know you’re gone and shan’t come home?
What knowledge must my puzzled heart still learn?
Why do I get an urge to search and roam?
If we are conversations ,as I read,
Then our exchange has ended with your death;
And so I am not she with whom you laid.
Nor she with whom you shared a common breath.
When deprived of hearing your response.
I am no longer she who I was once