The Lake, Then Mark

The playlist spun out 'Summer of '69',

and for a second, I was back, feeling fine.

That sticky August air, the lake's green sheen,

our young, sun-drunk bodies, a perfect scene.

We skipped flat stones, made plans so grand,

hand in hand, or almost, across the sand.

Then, like a shadow, like a cold, sharp blade,

Mark's face appeared, the promise betrayed.

Not the laughter, not the light in his eyes,

but the tight jaw, the cutting surprise

of his words, the way he turned and walked off,

leaving me alone, with a hollow, hard cough.

And suddenly the song, so full of cheer,

was a cheap, tinny sound, assaulting my ear.

The lake, once bright, now felt like a trap,

the memory curdled, a bitter, sour sap.

It wasn't a summer; it was a lie, half-spun,

a golden thread, suddenly undone.