six years from now, it will still hurt.
you will grow older, you will grow stronger. you will stop writing unsent letters in your outlook drafts, in your daily planner, on the backs of grocery receipts, across the pages of books he used to read. you will have sex with strangers, friends, lovers. you will remember some of them, and call the rest by the wrong names. you will vacation in tokyo and go skydiving in kansas and grow your bangs out and smile more easily. you will feel lighter and breathe deeper and your hands will grip the steering wheel without drawing your knuckles white against bone. you will finally change your last name back, standing in long lines at the dps watching excited teenagers pretend to look jaded as they pose for their driver’s license photos. you will stop watching the calendar for dates that used to matter, seasons he used to own, memories that used to burn deep. you will stop finding shirts in the back of the closet that still smell like him- and the ones that do you will fold up and donate. you will put those old playlists back on and learn how to dance to them without faltering, and spend your evenings drinking cheap wine and slowly falling in love with your life.
but six years from now, it will still hurt.