My love is shelf stable.
My heart is best before sealed,
for an infinite future.

The apparent stagnation 
is really the exaltation of immortality,
the way a feeling can remain at its prime until necessary,
the bounty firm against the cheek,

waiting.

Waiting for an undetermined moment where the seal breaks,
where the sand begins to bead down the glass, 
where you are no longer inexahasutible,
and must succumb to the laws of nature,
to let bacteria consume you and your love
in slow increments. 

My love, although seemingly infinite before breakage, becomes volatile once breached. 
Who will break the seal and render me perishable?