Because You Believed in Stars

I loved you because you looked at the sky not with logic, but with longing. Because when others needed proof, you simply needed wonder. And I I was stitched from stardust, held together by the gravity of dreams.

You never asked me to explain why my soul pulsed with galaxies, why silence made me weep, why I spoke of love like it was older than time. You just listened, as if the cosmos was speaking and you didn’t want to miss a word.

I loved you because you believed in the unseen and I was always more spirit than skin. Others touched my body but missed the constellations. You? You traced them, like you knew the map by heart.

And maybe we were never meant to stay stars don’t settle, they burn, they fall, they become something else. But in that moment, you saw me. Not as a wish but as a world.

So I’ll keep loving you not in memory, but in motion. Every time the night is clear, I’ll know: somewhere, you still believe. And that is enough to keep me shining.