You wouldn’t let my feet touch ground
until side A died out
and the pirouette ceased.
We laid there in our Analog Atlantis
staring beyond the ceiling
letting the soundscape crash over us
and cascade into auricular orifices.
Our bodies lifted from the mattress,
floating up and up—
past the ceiling, past the trees,
past the planes and clouds,
past the stars and planets—
into the ether we fantasize about
in our synchronized dreams.
Til the sound waves receded,
and our bodies washed up along the shore,
our contours molding into impressionable sand,
turning our gaze to one another—
the needle lifts from the wax
and returns to rest,
the platter ceases its cycle,
the speakers die—
and instead of feet touching ground,
I flipped over to side B.