Needle to the record.

The scratches come to my ears.

Unwelcome at first, then a strange comfort.

The sound from the past feels like home.

Wrapped in the sound.

Delighted in the melody.

And the song finds me.

 

Skipping little scratches,

Raspy, true, and honest.

The record plays out, like a heartbeat.

Constant, predictable, raw.

Tracing my outline, framing my face,

Like its home has always been me.

And the song knows me.

 

The room is filled with music,

My heart is filled with love.

Whispering my name over and over,

The record tells me about myself.

Finding myself in a broken mirror,

Black vinyl as my biography.

And the song becomes me.

 

Yet, all too soon, the needle slows.

The whirring sounds softens,

The record snags on a scratch.

Perfection can’t be perfect until the music ends.

Broken where I was once whole.

Disenchanted from a spell of love.

And the song leaves me.

 

Now the silence is deafening,

My ears strain to hear again.

Heartbeats still synced to what was.

Emptied and charred, burned from the inside out.

Yet the song still spins around my brain like a record.

Leaving a void, never to be filled.

And the song haunts me.

 

Found.

Known.

Become.

Left.

Haunted.

 

And the song finds me.