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?