don't give yourself away

one day you will come home and tell me you have met someone else- a new hire in your office, an old college classmate at the bar, a friend of a friend at a house party.  one day, i will lean hard against our balcony and think about the weight of gravity.  one day, we will have the difficult conversation and your hands will abandon my own to smooth the creases in your jeans nervously, over and over again.  one day we will turn in this notice to vacate and pack our things and try not to notice that your socks cling static to my forgotten party dresses and that my heart clings desperate to your forgotten love letters.  one day we will argue about who this saucepan belonged to originally and our anger will burst and bloom into bitter poison between our teeth.  one day you will move out and she will wait for you beside the u-haul, wearing tight jeans and a triumphant smile.  one day i will find synonyms for "over" in three languages and twelve steps of acceptance.  one day you will text me awkwardly and tell me you will always care.

one day i will sit down at this keyboard and finally exorcise your name from my mouth.

one day i will sell the story of our nights spent sweating, my incisors at your neck.

one day i will replace you with paper and ink.