I felt the tug of the moon as she sailed up in the silver bowl of the sky.
Having peered at me through encroaching forests, she sought a clearer view,
And hung herself in the heavens like a lazy eye. I sit here at the edge
Of a hole in the ground, the grave of someone I once knew.
I hold her grinning, eyeless skull in my upturned palm, sorry
That we never said goodbye. But I knew her well, you see.
Horatio, what is the value, the virtue, in sharpness?
Where does the wit leave off and the heart begin?
And how should we judge ourselves more gently than those
That we knew so well, we once called them friend?
How, I think, I never looked back to see her upraised hand.
I never once thought I might miss her humor, her speech.
For you see, Horatio, this bubble of bone I hold in my hand
Is all that remains of the woman I was,
Merry and earthy. Easy and bright.
How strange it is to contemplate that other life.
Pity, I knew her well, and now she is gone.
Who, I wonder, will answer for her now?