…And there is no room in the world for the sentimental.

No earthly place in which to stack the memories

upon high, layer upon layer like bricks laid out

on a spring morning in which to build an annexe.

 

Move on, like a fluttering unfeeling butterfly

already in the sights of the patient entomologist,

letting go of the nightly moth in his paw like grip

and ready to pin you down.

 

I will not but be sentimental, to be romantic,

certainly emotional and perhaps at times flowing

of self-pity and maudlin, melancholic faded smile,

for if I forget one moment of you, I will be less than true.

 

If I should forget one brief moment

of what you meant to me, of the pained laughter,

of the unexpected hug when weeping, of a cross word

mastered, then take me out and bury me, for the soul is dead.

 

I don’t expect you to ever understand

why I will not move on, why I will not let memories wither,

and blur, stain, turn yellow and crack like a fragile

old photograph; just know I aim to remember you.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.