sonnet no. 1

Hours lost by the minute, searching for
Lost loves—never left, yet away still.
Turning pages, bending spines, messy floor,
Without another, I hold my will.

I must not be left for much longer,
Roaming aisles without a father,
I slip further as you get stronger,
For fear can’t yell, or be a bother.

Writing letters of intimacy,
Yet we still hear the originals,
Reading tales of legitimacy,
Grasping a love, never fictional.

But losing love’s opportunity,
Only fuels my immunity.