Words of love flutter.
Everyone knows that.
They flutter and flit about the sky like leaves being blown apart onto the neighbor’s lawn. The very words themselves jump, jump, jump, scatter and fall. They last for so very little time in the air and they brown nearly immediately once set upon the ground, crackling and splintering when stepped on.
(It's invariable.)
Slippery when wet, they have sunk.
There is an impression of them, somewhere in the back of a book; luckily hidden for it is embarrassing and boring to retell a fall that everyone knows and have already drunk their tea to.

William Porter

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mounted-upon-pins-and-needles/