Another awesome poem...Not by me.

Glove

If in this word
Is love itself
Then love is bone
And blood inside
The form that warms
Your lovely hand-
Your hand is love
And mine that takes
Your love in mine
Without your hand
Is nothing but
An empty word.
Bruce Guernsey (b. 1944)

Who can argue with such ambiguous yet concise writing? Plus, it can not be easy to compare love to something as ordinary as a glove.