Talk to her, Cupie, where'er she may be. Let your sweet voice of romance beckon, then secure my darling's love, that with me she will be, if not on this bright day of love, then at least on some other day, preferably ASAP.
Cupie, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, her absence heretofore; the courage to change the things I can, perhaps to be less of a hayseed and more of a stud; and the wisdom to know the difference, since hayseeds and studs aren't usually the same thing. Just get her here, posthaste!
What can I do on another lonely Valentine's Day but seek out the help of a higher power? She's out there ... maybe? Maybe she died by now. Since we never met maybe she did die. But putting her aside, surely there's someone else out there still alive and I wouldn't know the difference. Would this undying hope be pulsing in my breast were the matter hopeless? Never! That would be hopelessness, and life is more -- what's the word -- fecund? than that. Is that it? Fecund? Fecundity? I'm not sure what that means but my mind says it's the right word. And you're always supposed to go with your first impression ...
So, sweetie, out there somewhere, let's get together and ... fecundate. I hope I didn't just coin that, but it sounds classy anyway. A little dirty.
Cupie, I clasp your lithe little naked form to my beating heart. Hope I don't smush your wings or get your feathers out of joint. Please, please, please ... talk to her where'er she may be ... tell her to find me! I'm out there somewhere, my dear, lonely, waiting for you, if not today, then by Valentine's Day next!