Memories in my phone

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.