The paper stark a waiting field

The paper, stark, a waiting field.

My name, a hurried scrawl.

Not the wide, looping script revealed

in albums, standing tall

with adolescent flourish, bold.

No, this is tight and small,

a story neatly, barely told,

a guard against the fall

of meaning. Just the facts, precise.

My 'f's don't curve and sway.

My 't's are crossed, without a vice,

just quick, then thrown away.

A smudge of ink, where finger brushed.

Less a declaration, more

a task, a quiet thing, hushed,

behind a closing door.

It feels like someone else's hand.

This cramped, efficient line.

Across a forgotten, formal land,

no longer wholly mine.