I have not yet been in love. But I would still call myself a romantic.

I live in the romance of possibility. In the romance of un-walked city streets.

The romance of the taste of air on a beach I’ve never visited.

The romance of one day having my heart dripping with honey, soft and sweet.

The romance of music written years before I was born. Years before people learned how easy it was to profit from words sitting, hollow, in the shadow of romance.

I am vulnerable to living in the fleeting and in artificial atmospheres forcefully created.

When you live in the romance of possibility, you forget to live. You even forget what it means to live. You start to question if you ever truly knew. It is safer, nay, perfect, to live in the fog of moments yet lived.

Or moments that have been lived, but thus can never be yours to keep on the perpetually re-masked canvas you like to call memory.

I walk, my body drowning in the romance of past romances. It’s all quite sad really, how the possibility of romance transcends the experience itself.

Time never stops moving. But you do. There is no one who understands this better than the (not yet romanced) romantic.