Fraying Edges

The photograph curls inward, resisting the flat frame of the present, its sepia tones bleeding into the white borders like tea spilling over a porcelain saucer.

I try to recall the scent of that afternoon, the texture of the wool coat against my cheek, but the senses have packed up their vibrant wares and moved to a city I cannot visit.

Only the hollow outline remains, a silhouette cut from dark paper, holding the space where a voice used to echo, now just the faint hum of an empty room.

Time does not steal with sudden force, but nibbles patiently at the margins, until the center is all that is left, and even that is thin enough to see through.