It might be a day to feel left out, just another Saturday, ordinary and one-of-a-kind, when I’m singularly content with being single.
It might verge on narcissism to send a valentine to myself; although, I think, no more so than to expect one from another.
I have not had the attention of a lover to last a lifetime—although, who knows into eternity. Does that mean I’m lacking or lonely or left out of romance?
Not at all.
Everywhere is an embrace; the place I find myself is full of possibilities for engagement.
I cannot look at the moon and believe I am unloved, sense a breeze and be unmoved, know the birds’ song and feel forgotten.
There are flowers enough to romance me, even in winter I can paint them into view.
There are fires to warm me that I build myself.
Cats gaze into my soul as devotedly as I gaze into theirs.
Music seduces me constantly.
Creation is my purpose, and my words creative enough to convince me my imagination is the only lover I need.
And so I am foolish still.
“What a fool you must be,” said my head to my heart, or my sterner to my softer self.”
~ Anne Brontë, Agnes Grey
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