As a teenager I was once informed, and not unkindly, by a cousin whose earthly years tallied in the low single digits, that I was “a senti mental.” He split this four syllable word into two words of two syllables each, and pronounced each syllable as distinctly as only a born and bred South Indian can. Senn-ttii Menn-ttall. Taking into consideration his pronunciation, enunciation, and the general context of the conversation, I believe he believed the word (or in his usage, words) referred to less than sound faculties of mind. I recall the combination of confidence and concerned affection in his voice. It touched and amused me then as the memory still does now. I do not think it was an entirely misplaced diagnosis.
With that preamble, from sometime after the turn of the millennium — a decidedly Senti Mental somewhat poem.
will fade–like the memory of winter
(like the clichéd memory of winter)
when Spring is come.
and when you are arrived
(like that soulsweetseason)
with leaftipped promises
of blossoms and bliss
with brightlipped promises
of–
i shall recall with the
faint bewilderment
of the backward glance
days that were
longand
difficultand
dark
but–
i will not
be able
to summon
this current sensation
this current
current of
sensation–
of
being
cold
coldcoldcold
(and old)
of being
not so much
alone
as–
(only.)
everything that now insists
on its separate
sadness–
the dawn ritual
of heartache-
regular
rehearsed.
a line-perfect
pang.
faking-a-waking.
the swiftsighs swallowed
like small stones
filling nothing
(and lots of it)
smiles tossed like wistful garlands
wreathing the happiness other people
have found
in
eachother
everything now
poignantprofound
everything
par-t-ic-u-lar-ly
painful
shall fall silent and
as
easytoforget
as
asoftlysleeping
scar
that I shall wonder at when
I push back the sleeve of
this time and see it
there–
witness to a wounding
i will barely recall
(if at all) —
so close
soclosesoclosesoclose
will i be
someday
to the sun of your
love
(the sweetsumofyour
love)
there will be
nothing remaining of
this time
to hold onto.
an icicle- sharpointedestined
to melt into the memory of
something-
sharpointedestined
to melt into the memory of–
so close
soclosesoclose
will i be
someday
to the sun of your
love
(the sweetsumofyour
love)
that this time
i know
will fade-
like the memory of winter
(the clichéd memory of winter)
when Spring is come.
and when you are arrived
(like that soulsweet season)
with leaftipped promises
of blossoms and bliss
with brightlipped promises
of—
there will be nothing left
of this time to
hold onto
(save only
…this.)
The Poetry Of 
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