Numb As a Wound-Ii

I am sitting in my Dorchester lair, Behind the door I feel your lovely mien, The time my poetic muse is in the air, You look so much real as life, amore mia. When I am surfing on the internet, You are there in my click I envisage, When I initiate to scribe a sonnet, I could see you embossed on the pages. Sighing, wry face, the lips as a dry leaf, Your green blue deep eyes upraised fully, Neither the death kills me, nor does the life, Your silence always eats my soul and body. Numb as a disease, I die of a thought, Do not you sense the same as I ought do?