Sonnet for a Sleepless Swede

I am happy that you are in good hands,
My hungry heart, although I had no clue
When I sent you off to that foreign land
Whose borders are not made to let love through
That everyday would be a new torture
Without those good hands to hold and to kiss.
I worry that I may be in danger,
For my heart's ache has never been like this.
But feeling a new agony growing
From somewhere deep within my aching breast,
I soon find meager relief in knowing
Pressed tightly against mine own gaping chest,
My good hands do too hold a hungry heart
Who suffers with each moment spent apart.