She is more than just an outline of a body.
She was more than a mess of thoughts and a mess of clothes that she sometimes spilled a mess of coffee on.
She is more than a text message awaiting an answer, a phone number to call when he felt like it, when he is bored or when he is lonely or when he wants sex.
She wants more than an occasional night here and there (except when she doesn’t). And more than a once-a-week if this is going anywhere.
She wants more than a maybe and a gray area and an undefined.
She is more than sunshine — sometimes she is thunder and lightning and storms and monsoons and rivers of rain collecting in gutters.
She is more than happy-go-lucky. In fact, she never is happy-go-lucky. She thinks happy-go-lucky-kinds of people are delusional, anyway.
She is more than the triangle silhouette of a dress. She is more than the dip of her low back, the curve of her ass, the dimple in her cheek, how much — or how little — the V-neck of her t-shirt exposes.
She is more than lips to kiss and a warm body to hold, to use as you please (unless she pleases it, too).
She wants real conversations and honest talk about your day and not the edited version of your big life events. Not fine, great, ok, thanks, yours?
She wants hand-holding and forehead kisses and someone who can’t wait to wake up beside her in the morning tangled in her hair. (She hopes he likes coffee, too.)
She wants laughter in the kitchen and squeezing two bodies into one sleeping bag under stars.
— One day, she wants this. One day.
But right now, she just wants to be OK with herself — here, whole.
She wants to be standing tall and stretching her arms out wide — taking up space. Not just existing, not waiting, not haphazardly patching up heart cracks with false love and comfort.
She wants to be more than the ghost of the man on her arm, or her cell phone screen, or in her room.
She wants to be free. And she is. Flying.