Talkie

That day is incomplete which isn't shared
With you. If I can't tell you what went on,
What everybody did, and how they fared,
The day when all that happened is just gone,
As if it never happened. Telling you
Is half or more of all the joy I find
In everything I choose to say or do,
So missing it is hard. Unless cosigned
By your attention, nothing counts as done.
Of course I feel the same about your day:
I want to hear the stories you have spun
Out of the things that happened on your way.
And so when you are absent, what am I?
Both wells that feed my happiness are dry.