Alone is worse, perhaps, but maybe not.
This year our conversation’s like a curse.
I used to like to talk with you a lot.
Alone is worse?

We’re neither so infirm we need a nurse,
and though there’s nouns I know you have forgot,
I wait for wit and now receive reverse.

Declaring love, of late I’m sensing rot.
Avoiding bicker trims my talk to terse.
I doubt the phrase that I’m about to jot:
alone is worse.

(Roundel)