Sonnet 4,921


I could not warm the sadness of his heart
Despite the heat of promises within
And whilst I miss him now that we’re apart
I wonder if he thinks the things I think.
Perhaps he has imaginings like me
Where physical perfection lasts all night;
And maybe there was more for me to see;
There’s definitely more for me to write.
If I could do things diff’rently, I would
Erase my words and tempers ‘cross the miles;
Alas, I only spoke the things I should;
Not leaving room for humour there – or smiles.

If words be feelings, may I never write;
For I shall speak within, and stay polite.


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