I would write a sonnet just for you,

something comparing roses to your sweet breath

or the clouds in the sky, anything to hide a solitary clue

of how you wish me nothing but ill-fortune and possible death.

I hold a candle for you at all times of the day and night.

The wax cascading down, tear by tear

and soon snuffing out eventually your guiding eternal light

as the days turn to months and finally a goodbye to the year.

Oh I wish I could say I still miss the way you were

but lying was never my fortitude

for now I shall just grimace at the thought of you

and your bleak shadow upon my heart, you cheating, selfish cur

and the trouble you brewed,

and think of one redeeming feature in which to hold a candle anew.

Ian D. Hall 2015