If we are conversations

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

I welcome comments and criticism

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