What Love Is
I deleted the first line of this poem.
At first, I wrote that romantic love, to me,
has always been unfamiliar.
But that's just wrong—
it's not that it's unfamiliar.
I know what romantic love is,
through movies, through songs, through poems—
just never through experience.
Romantic love to me has always been just a concept,
a thought, perhaps,
but never something tangible,
or something you can grasp and feel.
It is a thought that is blurred,
no matter how many silhouettes I try to picture.
I tell myself it is okay,
that I don't need romance,
that my heart is not missing a piece—
but at night, when I close my eyes,
there's a void I cannot deny.
I feel so incomplete,
and no matter how much I search,
it seems that I will never find the one,
the one who fills the hole in my heart,
the one who completes me.
But somehow, I still believe—
that I'll find it, I'll find the one, someday.
So I whisper a wish to the stars every night,
with the hope that tomorrow
I'll finally love
and be loved.
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