So I haven't written a sonnet in years, and even then that was by accident. Anyway, this one's for Thet:

We walk our weeks in lives which are disjoint
with only -ends when we might meet with cheek
to cheek. And still the rush may disappoint
our plans—my days pass by and still I seek
a day when we, without a sacrifice,
can be both close and close without a phone
which lets us wander all around, entice
with winding chats—and leaves us still alone.
Yet when I see and feel and hear your voice
my doubts are calmed and stroked all smooth again.
I know that we can wait before a choice
of where to go, or how, with whom, for what, and when.
So I pursue, not rush, and set my pace
for miles to come, and just enjoy the chase.