You are like a magnet on a fridge. You are latched onto my memories. Once in a while, I stare at you. I notice you. But most of the times, I don’t. But you are there—removable, but holding still, resisting gravity, paused when the rest of me rides on. You hold a piece of photograph that smells like a rugged old book from a used bookstore. You exist. You are a nostalgia. And that’s ok. But I, I hold rays of sunrises to come.