A fire truck is just a drivable penis. The flames of my love might engulf you, if you don’t let me park inside you.
She loves me. She must, because she left flowers in the fridge from her date. She knows how I love flower salad.
Flowers smell terrific, but how do they sound? If they sound like your love life, then you’ve got to take your Helen Keller Goggles off.
Fireworks are flowers in the garden sky. My love is like New Year’s Eve, only less predictable and more daily.
I knew I was in love because I had butterflies in my stomach. Also in there I had flowers, a few rainbows, and leftover unicorn from the bbq the day before.
Two become one when two are in love—or when the waitress asks about our dinner bill. I’ll pay next time, I promise.
When there is extra to be eaten, I’ll be there, and I’ll be hungry. When there is more love than people to absorb it all, I’ll be there, and I’ll invite my clones.
She asked if I loved another woman, so I answered honestly and said, “Dinner was great, but I could go for dessert.
Love is about forgiveness. And since I love you, you should forgive me.
You have to be fun to ride roller coasters. And you have to be tall. My love for you is both of those things, even though I disguise it as a dwarf.
In a blind taste-test, my kisses were rated as Helen Kelleresque. Women love how the only sense I keenly possess is nonsense.
Love will make a man do some funny things, like tightrope walking across a telephone wire, rather than simply picking up the phone to call or text.
Love has boundaries, like a map, and I guess that makes me a cartographer. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re too topographical for my taste.
Love doesn’t have form (aside from your naked body), but it does have a shape. The shape of love is circular, like a STOP sign.
Cages are good. My heart is in my rib cage, and love is in my heart. We should put more things in cages, like politicians.
I believe in true love. But my opinion is tainted, because I also believe in Bigfoot, aliens, and in the existence of honest politicians.
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.
My computer file is zipped, but my pants are not. Let us make love like 1968, before Al Gore invented the internet.
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.
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.
