I knitted a sweater to look like a swimming bird, and pretty soon the whole world looked like it tasted like duck soup. My love is coffee-shaped and without chug.
The ice cube melted slowly like a candle, and I thought about my love for her and how it was like an ice cube candle and that I’ve always wanted to drink fire and make love with the ferociousness of a cooked spaghetti noodle.
I want to be loved, but first, I want to love. I’ll love you and we’ll both feel good, and if you love me too that’d be great, but not entirely necessary.
I keep my love for her in the ashtray, along with the other stuff she burnt.
Love in a box. It’s a gift—for both of us, from both of us.
I loved her bravely, like a fighter turned sprinter. I loved her so fiercely that I never even dared speak of my feelings. And because I displayed as much passion as a statue, our relationship stood perfectly still and never moved anywhere.
She wasn’t much for words, but she told me she loved me in other ways, like soft kisses, gentle caresses, and occasionally even acknowledging that I was also in the room with her and that other guy.
When the sky is blue, I think of her. When the sky is gray, I think of her. When the sky is black, I think of her. But when the sky is orange, I think of juice, and how I am thirsty—for her love.
We were just kids, what did we know about love? I knew I loved her, and she knew she didn’t love me. Turns out we were both wrong.
Gondolas are romantic. Forgetting the last word in the phrase “I love you” isn’t romantic. Still, I get credit for rowing, right?
I often confuse fog and mist. But one is not the other any more than either are either. Let this be a lesson in love.
A bear trap eats, but does not drink. My love, however, drinks, but does not eat.
Your love, it takes me to the moon. Let’s get back to the film studio and start over. Pour a small cup of coffee while I take one large sip for mankind.
I love love, I hate hate, and I’m indifferent about indifference.
Having to eat fruit drives me bananas. But it’s OK, I park. Then I pick up a hooker and make love like I’ve got no money. And I really don’t have any.
Women love a man in uniform. You should see them drool when I dress up in my Girl Scout outfit.
I’d dig a hole the size of the grand canyon to find a love the size of an acorn, and I’d use a shovel the size of a squirrel.
I’ve got a lot of love to give you. And by you I mean your clone.
My love smells like an empty mayonnaise jar. It ought to, because that’s where I store it. Coincidentally, my love also looks and tastes like mayonnaise.
I won’t die for my love—but I will live for her, which is much harder and more impactful.
If you don’t learn how to drown, you won’t learn how to love.
