I am driftwood, imperfect, but good enough to hold onto tightly while you figure out the shape I was destined for–I know you too well, Puzzlemaker.
You are one who must make fit the pieces perfectly, lest your life be unfulfilled. So you place me in the vise, and turn, turn, turn. Hold me fast and examine my form.
Where to cut? Where to shave thin? How do you make me slide into place? This is after all, your love game.