Where is the other love. This tin man version has no scent, no beating heart, no life. A replica running outdated version 2.0, with cardboard compliments and painted lines from a tattered romance novel. No poetry amongst the pages. Words for sugar addicts who starve on empty calories. I caught a radiant glimpse of him once behind the curtain. Plain and perfect, no shimmering mirage. This Wizard of Oz version cannot send me home. His magic a stage prop to misdirect. Why won't you hand me my ruby slippers, the color of blood and sunsets after a cleansing thunderstorm. Pull down the mask before it is too late, and I will meet you in a field of pain and God blessed flowers– fearful heart to fearful heart. Wear nothing. Forget everything. Breathe deeply the scent of the rose with a thousand thorns. My garden is filled with them. Send me home to the garden, the dirt, the biting insects, the too hot sun. I already have what I am looking for. Can I give you a pair of Ruby slippers?