I feel many things

when it comes to romance,

though I haven’t felt it myself

Awe, in the idea of it all—

the shared whispers,

the intimacy and trust,

the emotion that’s conveyed

in a single glance

Disgust, the loathing that arises

at the thought of me in another’s arms,

of the shared whispers,

of the joined hands and lips

Desire, at the same time—

the want, the need

to be loved, to be coveted,

to convey such emotion

in a single glance

Anguish, the sadness,

the despair that follows it all

the wishing so desperately

for something that I cannot stand

Doubt, which reigns strongest,

Overpowering any assurance

for no matter how sure I try to be,

I am always consumed with uncertainty

Romance surrounds us all,

a shining ideal,

a promised inevitability

held by the reassurance

that we just

“haven’t met the one”

And yet, it isn’t certain—

it isn’t me

For what am I

if not the absence of romance,

the inexperience of it

I watch others move through it with ease

while I yearn

and avoid

and covet

and hate

and despise

all while sitting on the edge

of something I’ve never touched

How can I know what I feel

if I am uncertain what it is I am supposed to?