He had told me he loved me, and I couldn’t believe him,
though I knew he believed himself.
He asked me why I couldn’t believe him, and I told him it was easier that way.
I knew one day he would get over me and that it wouldn’t hurt as much when he left.
He fought me on this and explained every reason why he loved me.
He started with us, that I understood him, that I made him happy.
We had complimented and challenged each other splendidly.
He talked about me and how he found every part of me astonishing.
My everyday thoughts had interested him, and my passion for what I loved was admirable.
He described my beauty. My hands, my face, my hair.
His lips perfectly synced with mine.
We harmonized in unfathomable sequence.
And while I believed all these things as well,
I could not believe he loved me.
There were moments when I almost thought I could believe him,
but they passed with a blink.
I never was convinced but that didn’t bother me.
I was content without feeling loved, as long as I could love him.
I knew I loved him, more strongly than I had loved anything.
My feelings for him challenged any preconceived notions of love.
He gave me hope in myself. He made me believe in love.
Though I knew I could never truly move on;
I would forever remember him and all he had given me.
I knew no one could ever come close to taking his place.
He had changed me for the better. His short presence in my life was incredibly impactful.
But even as I remember him;
every wonderful, brilliant, caring, exciting, loving part of him,
I know I was right to not believe him.
Because it is easier this way.
It doesn’t hurt as much now.