the thing about conversation
is that it is never complete
it cons you into thinking
that there hangs a totality
in the reaching, stretching
of muscles of the neck, of fingers
to touch one another’s thinking
with words, that the other returns
things lost to you
no one tells you but realise
after its long over
that you are more halves now
than ever before
yet another person carries
a bit of you unsaid and undone
you are reassembled
with unfitting pieces
asking for mouths
stretching, opening, longing
to re-attach themselves to
unheeding to the sense
that to return is impossible.

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