When I was younger, I imagined that romance always took place within painted landscapes. Enveloped among the spice of wild flowers, in the mist of a morning dew. Barefoot in the sand, on the skirt of a moonlit ocean. Or perhaps even high in the arms of a tree, sprinkled with flicks of sunlight.
There was always a boy and there way always a girl.
There was always a shy and yet feverous passion between them.
I always imagined that this is where one could discover the romance he/she desired.
Yet here I find myself, in downtown Columbus Ohio, far from the romance I once sought.
Between the corner of Washington and Broad; where I once witnessed two people in the throws of passion, make love on the side of the old Methodist church- and the shadows that linger just beyond the bridge that crosses over the freeway.
In a small studio apartment, on the second floor of a crumbling foundation.
Towering to the ceiling with rescued books and guarded by the spirits of the dead rats and birds I keep safe and preserved in my freezer. The floors scattered in juvenile poetry, the walls held together by the memories of past love.
Apart from my sole companion, a small white alien whom I happened upon by mistake, tormenting me day and night, I am alone.
And in the mocking solitude and desolate isolation of the city,
I believe I have stumbled upon romance.