Romance. It dies as we get older.

I’m not talk­ing about love. Love lasts for­ever if you’re doing it right. I’m talk­ing about the time when love is still mysterious.

It’s the mys­tery that makes romance what it is. The uncer­tainty. The ner­vous­ness. The risk.

Think of high-school. Over the bra, under the blouse, hop­ing to god your parent’s don’t walk in. When you’re explor­ing someone’s body with won­der. When you’re not sure how to act, how to inter­pret things, and you’re tear­ing your heart out cause you don’t know what’s going to hap­pen next.

You lose that as you live and you learn and you grow. Confidence takes that ner­vous­ness away because you speak your mind, you share your­self, and the uncer­tainty is gone.

Maybe I’m just feel­ing old. Maybe I’m just cling­ing to the past in a fit of nos­tal­gia, to the inno­cence of my youth when love was the only thing to worry about. Romance with­out prac­ti­cal­ity, bound­aries, type, or class.

Maybe my more recent rela­tion­ships just haven’t had that ner­vous­ness. There was always that imme­di­ate con­nec­tion that leaves lit­tle room for doubt. As fiery as they were, there was no mystery.

Maybe I’m just feel­ing numb again.

John still comes to me with girl advice every now and then, when he’s los­ing sleep and he’s writ­ing ter­ri­ble, hilar­i­ous poetry. He hates the uncer­tainty, but I tell him to think of when he’s older and mar­ried to the same per­son for forty years, how much he’ll miss those feelings.

I tell him to enjoy it. To lose him­self. He should be so lucky to feel so strongly about someone.

We all should at least once in our lives, before it’s too late and the romance dies.