Scrawling Form

And when she sings in the morning, I forget what to say. She's got the globe tied to her little finger, and she will bring the apocalypse tomorrow by snipping the thread, scrawled out on paper, her vow to her mother that she would never forget the day that the pet dog died. God of the world, goddess of young girls, her handwriting is all that the boy next door has ever known passing notes through the room. All fall down, all die now. She's got a long walk home, and the bath is getting cold. She's just over-hearing conversations now. Always she will. Always she smiles, but she's trying too hard. Scrawl out all those tears with graphite. Loser. That's the word he was looking for. That's all she's ever been. I miss her and all that she was.