He left because he said I was too good.
Whatever that means.
So I tried to move on.
I did move on. Mostly.
But moving on tends to put you right back where you last left your heart,
like some sort of sadistic serendipity.
You can’t live without your heart.
And I want it back.
After I show him who he really left.
After I show him all the things I’d wanted.
After he knows what it feels like to lose it.
He might want to run.