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.