Because he was kind.
Because he was handsome and charming. Because I still got butterflies on our 17th date and every time he walked into the room my face lit up like a Christmas tree.
Because I remember fireflies and warm sidewalks.
Because If you would have asked me a year ago, the answers would have been venomous.
Because he was cunning. Because he was manipulative. Because I was young and dumb.
Because he prolonged the inevitable with his cowardice.
Because now I’m thankful for every memory I ever had. Because its easier to look back in naive nostalgia.
Because the bitterness and distain I have been carrying is such a heavy burden to hoist.
Because I am exhausted from melancholy nostalgia of you and I.
Because I watched the last scribble of hate in my heart skate across the sky like the scorched, white feathers of Icarus.
Because he opened my heart to love.
Because he taught me keep my expectations high. Because the broken bits of a glass that he accidentally shattered on our first date are so much better than broken bits of my heart he crushed when he walked away. Because I like to remember how the Monday’s feel like Sunday’s and the ominous night sky that swallowed up my thoughts, was just a blanket we slept beneath.
Because we danced in an abandoned outfield and he carried me over puddles. Because we dove into lakes and fled from the moon’s shameful luminance.
Because I still have memorized the little mark on his face.
Because I told him it looked like a star and when we kissed I had the pleasure of it brushing against my cheek, leaving bits stardust across my face.
Because it’s not that I miss drawing constellations on the scars and stretches of his back, I’m just finally hopeful that someday, someone new, will also find a beautiful galaxy out of the cicatricial marks that splatter across my skin like a dissolving solar system.