Your Best American Girl

Unlike Mitski,
I was not
Your Best American Girl,

because I was never
yours,
no matter how much I wanted to be,
and I was not the Best
and only nascently a Girl,
no matter,
again,
how much I wanted to be.

Instead,
after five years—
my brain hurts a lot—
Jaeden Camstra fills me
with grief,
with the heat and smell and breeze of New York City summers,
with vignettes of a possible world we are never to know,
with a deep sadness I do not entirely understand.

Instead,
you live inside my psyche still,
and I am no landlord,
even if I should,
in theory,
have the power to evict you
for non-payment of rent.

Instead,
we orbit each other’s lives
geosynchronously,
in equatorial and polar orbits,
never to overlap, to cross paths
except for the most fleeting of moments.

Instead,
I know assuredly
that we think of each other
with more frequency than our orbits would suggest—
but what do you think of me?
And do you know,
truly,
that I still mourn your loss?
In spite of—or because of—better, healthier, more capable lives
for the both of us,
ones that
we will never be able to
fully, wholeheartedly, and purely
express an unweighted joy for the other over?

Instead,
I do not miss
our past selves,
our past mistakes,
our past dynamics,
our past ambiguity,
our past excitement,
but I do miss
your presence,
your action,
not-at-a-distance.

Instead,
I simply mourn
that I was not
Your Best American Girl,
and I need you
to know that.