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I’ll see you in seven years,
when everything feels lighter,
and we’ve given ourselves time to heal.

I’ll see you,
and maybe we’ll go back
to what it was
or what it could have been.
I don’t know.

In seven years, I’ll be thirty-four.
Back in Mexico.
I’ll have fallen in and out of love
too many times to count.

And when I’ll think of you,
I’ll smile
softly,
like it never really ended.

and you’ll say my name

as if it had been waiting on your tongue.

And maybe,

seven years was just what we needed.

Maybe.