Romance is a flowery word that can pack a powerful punch.
Romance is an outstretched hand, a shared smile tugging at your lips.
But what happens when your outstretched hand is frostbitten from icy indifference?
I weep for the fact that I will never get to find out how you take your eggs.
I mourn because I will never know that that ocean makes your skin crawl
and the scent of sandalwood reminds you of your grandfather.
Like a gasping marathon runner reaching for water, a withering flower begging for rain,
I crave romance, love.
Something you were unwilling to give me.
I make your name the answer to my questions, your voice the comfort to my chaos.
Unfortunately, these were parts of you you never agreed to share.
Bucket on the ground, saltines on the side table
I’m left clutching my turning stomach, bedridden with lovesickness.