Look, I’m ace.
This is the first year I know this,
which means it’s the first I know
that I may never have a valentine.
At least none in the traditional sense.

No lover to get me chocolates.
Hubby to bring me flowers as
we’re sitting by the fire.
No homemade card to reclaim
the capitalism of the so-called holiday
all for ourselves.

Yet, what saddens me most,
is that I don’t care at all.

I don’t feel sorry for the nine-year-old me
who just knew that the picture she took
during the class party with her one and only crush
would be in the yearbook forever.
The one she was ecstatic about,
but always felt a little odd
and she could never pin why.

I don’t long for the ability to love
when the selfie he and I took a year ago
popped up on my phone.
The one I always knew was useless to take.

I don’t wish I had somewhere to be last night.
My online community raised
over 2.2 million dollars for charity,
the most we’ve ever done.
I painted for the first time in months,
the first items of pride I’ve ever owned.
A call from a friend that I haven’t seen
since another time,
another place,
another me.

I used to love Greek mythology.
I was a hopeless romantic.
I blasted love songs
and screamed them with all the air
from my lungs.

And I still do.
And I did.
And I always will.

Because I know that
love doesn’t only come
in one shade of red.
Because I always have
loved purple.