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Mar 10, 2021

The manual said the device stored snapshots of time. Memories I could revisit. Live over and over.

It held the musk of the carpet, the sweat on my skin. Your smokey cedar scent tasting like home on my senses.

I lived the day we met. The first time you held me. The day I kneeled on the steps and begged you to stay. I lived them obsessively. Greedily.

I couldn't let go of our time. So I let go of the present.

To you, I was a memory. To me, you were a gift.

The manual didn't say what to do when death found me in the snapshot

I've now lived a hundred lives trapped here.

Falling into love, despair and death. A record on repeat. Never to be free of you. And I never want to be.

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