On that summer’s day,
we were playing make believe.
Pretending to be Hamlet and Ophelia
with mock grieve.
We gave names to the approaching
clouds and drizzle,
This one’s “shaped like a camel”
and “methinks, it is like a weasel”.
I reached for your hand and you,
frightened with false fire,
preferred a flowery swim
as your object of desire.
It was cold and dark and fitting
when night has finally come,
and I was utterly deserted
even by the ghost from scene one.