Where then is your woman?
Is she there within your cries?
Is she in a different time and space with pain burned in and on her face, with angst for all the human race?
Is that wherein she lies?

Why had you left your woman?
Is she there or here, bereft?
Is she in a different soulful place with new and plenty hearts to chase the loving that her heart creates?
Is that why you had left?

Who then took your woman?
Was it he who sneaked upon her?
Did he lie in wait and stalk her there, or smell her words and sniff her hair with every fibre of his care?
Is that who moved you from her?

What did you give your woman?
Were your ears too deaf for hearing?
Did you listen-REALLY listen as she spoke, her eyes a-glisten: naked tears you thought were missing?
Is that the gift you gave?

How will you claim your woman?
Will you fight for every yearning?
Will you write and read her poems and put down your jeroboam and retrace the love you’ve known?
Is that how she’s returning?

When will you meet your woman?
Will it be a day that’s wet?
Will it be within a timeframe where the sun is always shining and when distance stops you pining?
Is that when she’ll be met?

It’s sad you lost your woman,
Though you did not one thing on it.
Didn’t listen, fight, or lie her on your chest to rest upon it, or give thanks when she was honest.

So this: a sorry sonnet.

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