 
Pardon my French, but deja vu's not the same as seeing you again.  And you can call me anytime, but dial 011+.  And don't be surprised if I answer in German.
Pardon the expression, but things have built up to a head.  I went out looking for another and circled back to you instead.  When later I thought to entwine my body with yours and yours with mine, I reached across the bed to the telephone and you weren't home.
Pardon the cliche, but I'm falling to bits.  Pardon my French, I love you larger than a postcard, more than an envelope can hold, stuffed full.  More than you know.
For too many days I've been licking these envelopes shut, now my tongue's swollen up.