a sonnet
When I spell the tale of our recent past
Your disguise shall be that of a woman.
I’ll keep our spark, the shade your lover cast,
And welcome the muse for whom I can’t plan.
I’ll honor our joy with style, grace, and word:
Give the world copy of things that I feel.
Your model becomes my novel’s shepherd,
Because of you I write to help me deal.
Yet sentences won’t rival emotions.
Wit in prose betrays the loss felt in life.
My ramblings will not match my devotion;
The limits of paper now give me strife.
Despite this conflict I’ll attempt my best,
And give our history a shelf to rest.
Your disguise shall be that of a woman.
I’ll keep our spark, the shade your lover cast,
And welcome the muse for whom I can’t plan.
I’ll honor our joy with style, grace, and word:
Give the world copy of things that I feel.
Your model becomes my novel’s shepherd,
Because of you I write to help me deal.
Yet sentences won’t rival emotions.
Wit in prose betrays the loss felt in life.
My ramblings will not match my devotion;
The limits of paper now give me strife.
Despite this conflict I’ll attempt my best,
And give our history a shelf to rest.