Corners Curling

The photo hangs

on chipped white metal,

a sun-faded snapshot pinned

askew by time and yellowed tape.

Edges curl like loose pages

in a forgotten book,

the light catching its crease

like a small wound left open.

I lean closer—

a laugh frozen mid-frame,

fingers caught in mid-air,

a moment cracked

but stubborn in its staying.

Every day I pass,

half-noticing, half-holding

onto that brittle bit of the past,

a thing taped to a refrigerator door,

slipping slowly from the world.