A/N: One day I may return to this poem to fill it out and finish it, but that day doesn't seem soon so here ya go.


They say love is not a victory march, that it's hard and fractured and that either their love will expire or their lives will. But we live. We are nonperishable. Our glass is uncracked, and I would say lid screwed tight, but we aren't so screwed—our seal can't be seen, we leave our jar's eye open to the world, unconfined. We are free, spilling with pungent affection, fermenting, ripening, growing. We are positively sporing.