Pardon my French, but deja vu's not the same as seeing you again. And you can call me anytime, but dial 011+. And don't be surprised if I answer in German.      Pardon the expression, but things have built up to a head. I went out looking for another and circled back to you instead. When later I thought to entwine my body with yours and yours with mine, I reached across the bed to the telephone and you weren't home.      Pardon the cliche, but I'm falling to bits. Pardon my French, I love you larger than a postcard, more than an envelope can hold, stuffed full. More than you know.      For too many days I've been licking these envelopes shut, now my tongue's swollen up.