slow dance with me  
i’ll bust out the old record player
place the album we used to love by day in and day out
the vinyl’s worn down, full of scratches and slightly lopsided from the constant wear and tear of the needle
it repels being placed on the turn tables, but i get it to fit
the needle hits and the sound is never quite right
all the damage caused to it has changed the melody from harmonic to cacophonic
nevertheless, we dance
ignoring the utter clarity that the record’s shanty melody casts upon us
that we, much like the record, are destined to break at the scratch of a needle
that we have slowly become equivalent to the album that rings in our ears and fills our tumultuously silent house
we both know this to be truth, however we refrain from acknowledging our impending doom and ignore it for an ignorance we try to convince ourselves is true
the needle runs off the record
our feet slow to a halt
the sound of a needle hitting dead wax fills the room
and we dissipate back into the ignore we so desperately need to be true