Hunting Death but only Hitting Melancholy

Shakespeare

The other two, slight air, and purging fire
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppress’d with melancholy;
Until life’s composition be recur’d
By those swift messengers return’d from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assur’d,
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
    This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
    I send them back again, and straight grow sad.

		The other day
			With the air
				Light
			The sun
				Cleansing
	The two of us
		Where no one could fault
	First
		Overthinking
	Then
		Just desire
We slid quickly to the grass
	Touching each other's ground
	Embarrassed by how licit was our love

My life
	Its four quarters
			Two alone
		Hunting death
			But only hitting melancholy
Is a looped film
	With an increasing frame rate

Who has just arrived?
	Again?
		As usual?

A festival of joy
	Which I love so much
	Which I cherish
Leaves me empty

I envy them
	Those who can return to a place they've been before
		Without sadness