I want to write a sonnet for the lass
Who failed to grasp my hand when I extended.
I don’t regret a moment of my past.
I only wonder what sort of life that lended?

I spoke to her often on telephone.
She always complained to me about whomever she dated.
I prob’ly should have left the lass alone.
But pined for truest love left unabated.

I think of you often and it’s with pride—
I did not give in to temptation that one night—
And to think that it was only when a bride.
Entered the equation, you gave fright.

Alas, it weren’t to be or it would be.
And here I am right now, alive and free.