Ain't enough poems round here no more

Incomplete in simile

There is no source for 'love you like';
There is no like a love like ours would be.
Just half a glance, a hare's breath touch,
Will feed my soul in its captivity.

I reach for you, ephemeral;
That half-smile could be taken either way.
Your presence whets my fingertips,
Which tremble as you say you may not stay.

Your voice recedes, I die again.
The room screams out the pain your absence rips
Into my heart, my pith, my core,
Now strangled by the ache of unkissed lips.

Then 'love you like' dies on my tongue,
Denied the air to whisper in your ear.
It brings no rhyme. It won't reflect.
The mirror it has wished does not appear.