Digital Archive

The storage is full of blurry sunsets and receipts.

The phone is begging me to let something go,

to clear the cache and keep the memory neat,

but that red dot is the only thing I have to show.

I play it back and hear the ceiling fan first,

a steady, wobbling thrum against the summer air.

You haven't even spoken yet, and I’m braced for the worst,

just the sound of you existing in that plastic chair.

Then your voice comes through, small and hurried.

You’re asking about the weather or the cat.

I’ve kept you in this circuit, safe and buried,

behind a screen that’s cracked and stained and flat.