Four girls in a room – the quintessential makeup of a coming
of age movie – scribbling
The script.
With one eyebrow raised, Nostradamus stands amused
At the pacts they’ve made over pizza.
Between the Present and the Promise, Presumption stands
Silent and brooding,
Like Adulthood.
Rules of fashion run deeper than the Rules of kindness,
The room is big enough (just about)
For the Rules of friendship to quell the tide.
Adulthood greets at the door,
The script has taken a life of its own.
The Pact surfaces,
Like a message in a bottle floating near enough (just about)
for you to see.
Presumption stares out of the mirror, you don’t like what it
says;
But the room isn’t big enough anymore
To run away from the reflection.
So you stay.
Silent and brooding,
Wishing for a world without mirrors,
Objects in the mirror are farther than they appear.
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