I had quite a collection of Pokémon cards as a kid.
They were my pride and my joy, the holographic ones especially—those I made sure to keep in special sleeves.
Well, I must not had cared for them as much as I thought I loved them, because I lost them. I lost ‘em all.
As a child at the time, I was devastated, immensely. But eventually, I carried on.
That’s the thing, you see. Thirty I’ll soon reach and even then, to me those silly cards are still a fond and vivid memory.
I thought I moved on? Yes, of course I did. I did, indeed.
The cards were all lost, long gone; I had to move on.
Hmm, funny, it just occurred to me.
That the memory of a love that’s lost? It’s not forgot’n; suppressed, merely.
That sheds completely new light on how I would define “moving on.”