I’m running from the very person I’m chasing, and this is how I know I’m in love.
We made love like I make grilled cheese sandwiches. I had no idea what I was doing, but she melted into me all the same.
I have outsourced my love to India. Call a call center if you want to hear how I feel.
My computer file is zipped, but my pants are not. Let us make love like 1968, before Al Gore invented the internet.
I love being in love, but I also love other things, like not being jealous, overly sensitive, or needy.
I’m such a good salesman that I sold my sales job. I sold it for ten I love yous and a bag of fellatio.
Love is a two-man job. Well, at least homosexual love is.
I don’t embark on journeys like the bark of a dog, but more like the bark of a tree. The path to love winds through a densely wooded forest.
Love allows us to remember the joy, and forget the pain. That’s why I write things down, to help me remember.
A rose will wilt in short time, but my garden is more vivacious for having one in it. Love is even more fragrant, but often just as fragile and fleeting, but I eagerly accept the joy of it now, knowing the cost is the pain of loss later.
We made love like two sand dollars in a vending machine. She said she wanted marriage and kids, and I said all I wanted was a soda.
Love is patient and love is kind. Damn! Why’d it have to be the two qualities I wasn’t born with?
Love is a four-letter word, like frog, only with more kissing and less princing.
Language is visibly invisible, and a foreign language is camouflaged. In another language, I love you may appear like common tree bark.
Love can’t tell time, but you can’t tell it that, because it won’t listen. I know, because I’ve tried.
Love is a universal language, and I have just created its alphabet. In written form, the letters are invisible; when spoken the words are inaudible; but when touched, the sentences are smooth, like freshly shaven legs.
I didn’t call her, but the phone works two ways. So does my love.
I only love her. I lonely love her.
We made love like Wednesday and Thursday, only Thursday wasn’t always on top. Her name was Yesterday, and today will always remind me of her.
In a cube of awesomeness, I am the lemonade of longing. My love has twelve edges, like a pack of razorblades to an edgy suicidal maniac.
The with is shorter than the without, but the with makes the without bearable, as the shadow of memory is long and bright. Let this be a lesson in love.
