Shall I compare thee to a sunny day?
Our slow, bright morning starts blurring at nine,
Back to those dew-polished grass where we lay,
Your gentle fingers intertwine with mine
But hold on, what do they feel like again?
Were they soft, dry, or calloused, I forgot,
They overrode themselves with muscle pain
And the romance runs thinner than I thought:
I stare at space knowing I can’t be yours,
While you take over the physical me,
The only sense I felt was that of floors,
Blurring the edges of its boundary…

‘Tis too hard, no love weighs more than I recall,
Perhaps I wasn’t meant to write sonnets after all.