You look at me no longer,
You glance but you see through;
I have become a window
To a vista old to you.
You reach for me no longer,
though you allow my touch;
To ask that I am asked for
is to ask too much.
You speak to me no longer,
But in fragments here and there;
A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ that answers
But dies in heavy air.
You seek me out no longer,
and I am but a toy;
Dusty on my shelf,
A beauty, not a joy.
