sonnet for O.

o how shall i lament each passing day?
each arc of every journey of the sun?
but with these thoughts of age and of decay
and wasted breaths of air -- what we become
is callous and unholy -- but the thoughts
that fill the space behind this troubled mind
are filled with -- O! -- a face i ne’er forgot
and can’t forget, nor will, nor would I try.
And so -- lamenting each and every day
becomes an hourglass -- each grain of sand
another tum’bling second toward the way
it feels to kiss your mouth -- to feel your hand.
We can’t forget -- it’s not the sun doth move
But us -- the earth -- and them -- then me + you.