I am not a romantic person.
I do not look at you when the sun sets at five.
I do not search for your gaze in a crowd of simmering strangers.
I am not a romantic person.
I do not spend my time waiting for you in the corridor–
looking for your familiar dimpled grin in the face of another.
I am not a romantic person.
I do not feel the butterflies flying amok when you say my name
or when you crane your neck and twinkle your eyes at me.
I am not a romantic person.
I do not make mixtapes and send them to you discreetly
or write long prose in memory of what can be.
I am not a romantic person.

I do not hope for the day when our fingers will intertwine–
like it’s second nature; no thought process involved.

I am not a romantic person.

I do not see myself in the one whose arms hold you tight.
I do not wish for me to fill the gaps between what makes it real and what makes you feel loved.

I am not a romantic person.

And I tell you this–

even though I am.