My love is like . . . how can I say?
She's not like this or that,
Not roses, nor a summer's day.
Such metaphors fall flat.
She's not like spring. She's not like fall.
She's human, not a season.
She's not like anything at all.
All metaphors are treason.
My love is like . . . I can't, you see,
Declare without compunction,
That she's like anything. For me,
Mere metaphors don't function.
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