Poem Reversioning... It struck me in a different light

We are not Two People
(Inspired by Muriel Rukeyser's Effort at Speech between Two People)

by Myself

He will not speak to you. Your hand in midair
Hanging still. Purple-cold as blood grew tired
To flow. While he drools over the death of
A rabbit.
Laugh at the girl who went under a chair.
Unbelievably, she is turning three.
He is very happy.

Did you ever think of those white sails, sister?
Count the years back, until the day before
You walked the Earth, they were there, sky high.
No embracing arms, but your own woman.
He lives there, happy. His own man.

He will not speak to you. Your purple-cold
Hand chips off away. He stamped his feet
Went off and left: what should have happened when
You were nine. No auditory nerves on
A black painted sound producing woodwork.
Every hour, minute second clicks away.
They call it time. It does not stop for tears.

Love lamps in evening corners, they are light
Amidst fear in the lives of all. Like his.
Keep closed, reserved. Saves power to shine more:
A quiet poem, but speaks. You are the lamp.

Hello. This is me. Grow to know me.
I would be watching the sunset then if
I happened to be by the window, even;
I am not alert: I wanted to watch
That vision. Through your eyes, through your soul.
I will be unhappy, if upon leaping
The clouds, the light, the redness of the horizon
Grey, black, dark, under the ground
I would scramble to my feet:
            Grow to know me!
I loved. I wanted you to know me.

Sister, what are you now?
Searching for him in the crowded street?
He was surfing by the waves, like a child
Frolicking in the sands.
I was there, no ignition.
So everyone, silent, moving…
I took your purple-cold fingers from the ground.
I followed you. Here, take it.
I am here, in the mirror.
Speak to me.