It’s not trash, but it should be.
      I want it to be,
but someone out there;
                  a memory,
        would hold it against me,
that tangible though brief history
                      discarded.
as if it didn’t live up to
    some archaic pedigree
          that would otherwise sustain it
              unto antiquity.

Is it not enough that we lived our lives?
                                        Survived?
                      Survive still,
to store those moments in boxes
        or lay them amongst the refuse
    and save instead that space?

How do we value emptiness
          against all the time that we’ve forgotten?