timothy-w

That song; my favorite possession,
The one you’d given me to sing,
The one that forsook the world
And let us alone together.
It still touches me the way you did: 
With an almost religious zeal,
As if by contact we could transcend.

I still find its echoes when I dream,
And I always spin away ashamed
But always savor that record’s spin
And taste your blurred memory 
On each rotation drawn by doubt
The record plays inwards towards the core
And I wait, a starving spider at the center.