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.