Years from now, when you’re married and have a kid or two, you’ll find my picture in a box or maybe you’ll see me in a magazine or in a movie, and you’ll get that tug, that pull in your chest as if someone had ripped your heart away from you for a second, and you’ll remember what you felt all those years ago with that naive sixteen year old girl who was young enough to still believe there was good left in the world, with the glimmer of hope in her eyes and the generous hand as if the entire world was still open to her, and you’ll wonder who kisses her goodnight these days. And you’ll dig through your boxes until you find that little slip of paper she wrote her number on years ago, and you’ll call it, your heat beat racing as the line rings. But to your dismay, that number is no longer in service. And just like that, she’s gone. The feeling you’ll never feel again, is gone with the girl. And you’ll wonder if you had kissed her one last time or called her one last time ten years earlier, maybe she would be the one in the room next door putting, no, singing your child a lullaby to sleep.