In the crinkled photograph in the corner of the armoire,
grainy and underexposed,
rough with age.
In the smell of cinnamon streusel,
sugary and crumbly,
that dissolves on my tongue
like years melting away,
leaving a sweet taste in my mouth.
In the rain that pitter-patters
against the glass window pane,
that fills my ears
with songs of my past.
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