They sneak in like old friends at a party—
a blurry selfie from last summer,
your laugh frozen mid-breath,
the timestamp screaming “two months ago.”
Swipe left: a coffee stain on the table,
your thumbprint still ghosting the edge.
Swipe right: that song we loved,
now it’s just nostalgia with a beat.
The algorithm knows me better than I do—
keeps serving up ghosts in high-def,
like I asked for a rerun of every “what if.”
I delete one.
Then another.
But the phone remembers anyway—
a quiet archive of us,
waiting for the next time I’m lonely
and too tired to scroll past.