Love is a stapler without the staples—

I have a million paper hearts and they blush at the precipice of their embrace but the embrace never comes.

Love is a lamp without the lightbulb—

I have a million shadow-laced armors and they pray at the precipice of their destruction but the destruction never comes.

Love is a parasol without the sun—

I have a million metal-cold handles and they shiver at the precipice of their fever but the fever never comes.

Love is a typewriter without the keys—

I have a million headlights-bright ideas and they hold hands at the precipice of their kiss with reality

                                                                                                                        But the kiss never comes.