My tin of pink salt from the mountains
expires in under a year.
Its age is some two hundred million;
it only just made it here.
This bottle of mineral water
was bound for a similar fate.
Five thousand years old and I drank it
on its expiration date.
I knew when we met that I’d waited
for her since the first drop of snow.
I guess it could never have lasted
for more than a month or so.
You make disbelief in eternal love poetically beautiful.