Like a can of stale sardines
i lie flat and stranded, denying
to myself that i'm no longer living
but just a piece of dead meat.

I try very hard to imagine
the tin can as a time machine
that returns me to those happy times
when you and i believed in eternity.

Now i'm brought back to the reality
that the meaning of eternity is being
soaked in a pool of sour preservatives.
But I'm sour, not because of the liquid;

I'm sour because you aren't with me.