Dear Bill,
Where art thou?
Longing to be another bard like thou
Art words fit into a sonnet
Nay! Thy words are cursed
I am lost in trivial things like death
Thou died long ago
Though, mine love has died currently
Thy hand possesses a beauty
That mine cannot replicate
Kiss mine weeping off a cheek
And tell me not yearn no more
For thou handed me thy gift
To sing thy praises of eternity
Truly
Thy rival
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I like the camaraderie of addressing him as Bill
and then signing off as, ‘thy rival’. Very nice and clever work.