The Next Girl

I want to be the next girl who leaves you reeling.   I want to be the next girl you roll over in bed and miss at 2 AM, feel for me in the empty space beside you, and fall back asleep missing what it’s like to have me in your arms.

I want to be the next girl who leaves you reeling.  I want to be the next girl you can’t stop talking about to all your friends, even long after I’m gone, missing the way I used to fit right into each curve of your body, each gap in your sentences, right between your heartbeats setting right the discords in your heartbeat symphony.

I want to be the next girl who leaves you reeling.  I want to be the next girl who will haunt you on your sad days, see my face everywhere, especially in the faces of the next girls who’ll leave you reeling, and your body will remember me more than you will, miss the spaces you filled in all the the most beautiful ways.

I want to be the next girl who leaves you reeling.  I want to be the next girl who your thoughts escape to, and I’ll file them neatly into the places they’re supposed to go, draw out the best thoughts from their respective folders.  I want to be the next girl you text with thoughts even after you know you shouldn’t for knowing that I still keep the files and that no one will ever sort out your thoughts with such meticulous care the way I did.

I want to be the next girl who leaves you reeling.  I want to be the next girl with the arms you still search for when you’re sad, regretting the way you forgot to appreciate that they were always open to you like the arms of the crucifix, bleed out my heart out for yours.  I want to be the next girl who trades your broken heart out for her whole one.

I want to be the next girl with the capability to break your heart.  And right now, I am nothing but the next girl watching the last girl leave you reeling in all the ways I wish I could.

You ask me what it’s like to shatter into confetti, the piece of paper with words bled onto them I am, and my answer is that it’s like dancing, the way I fling myself to the air, knowing the air can’t keep me.  And you string the pieces of my heart along the way gravity does, but at least until the last milliseconds right before my toes connect with the ground and I have fallen, I felt like I was flying. And I fling myself to the air each time with hopes that someday the air will sweep me up with it.

I want to be the next girl.

But not just the next girl.