Be Wary of Expiration Dates

I don't regret leaving. I do, however, regret coming back here. And for such a stupid girl reason. I wanted to be with you. I wanted to make myself accessible to you any time you wanted or needed me. Like a f*****g can of soup. Oh, it's chilly today. I think I could use a nice hot can of you. With a side of rosemary olive oil bread, of course. But like the hasty b*****d you are you guzzled down every last drop--leaving a dirty bowl with the carefully picked out carrots (you never liked them cooked) and a sprig or two of rosemary at the bottom. Carefully placed in the kitchen sink to harden over night. You'll get to it when you get to it. I understand.

I've always been soup. Except that one night when I was tofu stir fry (because we're vegetarians). Sauteed just right, but maybe a little too much curry? All I know is after that night I was still just f*****g soup. And now it's summer. Soup doesn't fare well in humid conditions. So I'm guessing we'll reconvene once the frost bites the ground once again. Then you'll need me. When you've got the shivers and cold hands. I'll warm your mouth, throat and stomach too. Just like soup is supposed to. Because I'm f*****g soup and I'll always be f*****g soup--sitting on the shelf for when you need me, or want me.