Monday Sonnet: Coda

That's it. There's no more sonnets. You change place.
And I will be your Cyrano no more,
There will be no more calling you 'Your Grace,'
No speech, no other witty metaphor.
I will no longer know the fragrance of
Your skin, the kindness of your eye, and far
Below myself will fall the experience of
Your stunning beauty (dazzling as you are,
When what you want is to be beautiful);
In time, I shall forget you, and you me,
And we'll become, within each other's chronicle,
Parentheses of prose and poetry.
Thus we disappear. Well, what to say?
From shade this came, to shade this goes away.