Crazy eights.

Romance.

It isn't a vase of long stemmed red roses. It isn't a velvet box, or the diamond ring it carries. It isn't the generic, sweet nothings printed onto a million pieces of paper.

Not for me, at least.

I've struggled with the idea of romance for a long time now. The idea that romance is a tangible thing, something to be bought and wrapped and given has never settled well with me. It's the reason why I've never stood behind "Valentine's Day." The sentiments may be sweet, and loving, and maybe even be the catalyst for romance to some, even to me, but they surely aren't romance itself.

So what is romance? Romance is an action, not an item. It is one of the ways that we, as humans, act out love. It is a verb, and never a noun. It is a simple act of genuine love that is as unique as the person performing the act itself. It comes with a touch, or a whisper, or merely a glance. It can be silent, or obvious, but it is never wrong. It is never fake.

Some of the most romantic moments in my life came in silence. It was the way he looked at me; the way his look alone made me feel like it was just him and I, how he looked into the deepest parts of me, embraced me with his eyes and said, "I love you," more eloquently with the color of his perfectly tinted irises than would ever be possible from his mouth. It was the way he hugged me; the way his body covered mine, and how it felt like our bodies had been created to fit perfectly together, like two pieces of the same puzzle. It was in the ways that he loved me.

Even more, some of the most romantic moments in my life came from those who were my greatest friends, not lovers. It was in the joyful, "Hello," after a long over due meeting. It was in the excitement of dancing together in a room full of strangers, but feeling like we were the only ones dancing. It was in the way they cared enough to ask me how I felt, and love me enough to cry with me, laugh with me, yell with me. It was in the ways they loved me.

I would be grateful for a vase of long stemmed red roses. I would cherish a velvet box, and the diamond ring it carries. And I would swoon over the generic, sweet nothings printed onto a million pieces of paper.

But that isn't romance. Not for me, at least.

Romance.

It is a look. It is a hug. It is a smile.

It is in the playful wrestling matches that end in me laughing and yelling, "Okay! Okay! I give!" It is in the secretive purchase of my favorite candy bar. And it certainly is in the verbal harassment, the smart ass quips, and dirty jokes we share.
It is love.

In whatever form you prefer it.