Shall I Compare Thee?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Ah, my darling; I suppose I really could. Your eyes certainly turn very wet at a moment’s notice, whenever you feel the need to deceive me. You float through each day like a sensuous, flirty, summer breeze busying itself with its own activities and hinting at sultry, sweaty nights to come that, sadly, turn too quickly chilly and uninviting before their charms can be embraced. Certainly, as you sleep warm and desirable beside me, I often remain awake, yearning for the wanton ardour of past summers that I think I can recall and deluding myself that in the morning you will have the hots for me – when, in reality, even the occasional “warms” would be a welcome change.

If the truth be told, I am completely disillusioned now. I have accepted that there is no room for me in your busy heart and you’ll never deliver the warmth and passion your soft, early morning beauty promises. I know I should walk away and seek a more alluring place to stay … and yet … and yet some deceptive inner voice still tells me that, next week, next month, next year, things will all be different – better.The trouble is, I guess, I love you anyway. But then, you undoubtedly are more lovely than Shakespeare’s bloody summer’s day … if only you would at least sometimes be less temperate.

 

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