A pile of rotting peaches sit in the fridge, playing sticks with a chocolate Easter bunny with its ears bitten off (it’s June). Unsalvagably brown bananas sit in the freezer, tallying the days on the wall that it’s been since I put them there with the intent of making banana bread to mask their bruises. Condiments crammed in the door like sardines in a can get sentimental and reassure each other that they’ll never go bad- at least in each other’s hearts. Maybe not in each other’s noses. 

My memory of you sits moldering in my camera roll and a thousand playlists, stuck in time and replaying like a TV show I watch again and again for the comfort of it. I don’t find much comfort in it. My mind and my body live in the filth of it like white noise in the background. Nostalgia kills, a slow death.