My yearning burns, aches,
a yearning to be like so many other
wonderful, glorified
individuals who have found their
Significant Only
and lived happily from there after.

I suppose it is my inner female romanticism that presses
this love journey to my mind;
I long to be more moving within another's conscious
-- to be adored and held, protected and treasured; --
I want to be an unrivaled,
untested, trusted
partner.

The tears come fast, and quiet.
I shed them privately,
'cause no person who is already experiencing their love's
beautiful magnificance
could possibly remember the empty feeling of longing,
and pity me for it.
The world would see false, teenage emotions that deserve
not a second synapse of thought.

Without the first touch to her lips,
or even the possibility of an immature success story,
how will she ever achieve a worthy scene replay
-- in her mind --
when her worries run high?
And without observing herself, or anyone else for that matter,
in a fabulous marriage,
in the arms and safekeeping of a man who sees her
different from the mass,
she can only forever remember loneliness and infinite envy.

Truth,
none of these love stories exist outside
the realm of characters and script,
but what of those intimate feelings
written about by musicians, screenwriters, and individuals
who claim to have observed such a
momentous love?
Do I simply trust that these same tales
are only that,
stories?

My most potent fear is for
me to never set my eyes upon thou who I will love;
to never remember the embrace of another
who longs for me, for my kiss,
and my touch;
to never approach a minister of the church
in a long, white wedding gown,
and give my heart away to the only man I trust;
to not get the chance to live with this
man I adore
until the last breath leaves my lungs.
That is my fear.